Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello readers!

Welcome to my collection of Dk oneshots, where I’ll be bringing to life stories inspired by your ideas and requests. Whether you’re here for fluff, angst, comfort, drama, or whatever else you want, I’ve got you covered.

I won’t write smut since I’m not comfortable with it, nor do I feel confident in my ability to do it justice.

Chapter Text

The air inside the practice room felt heavier than usual. It was the kind of tension that settled in unnoticed at first, but grew suffocating the longer it was left unaddressed. Seokmin had felt it lingering for days—an odd stiffness in the way the others spoke to him, a hesitation in their glances. At first, he thought it was just exhaustion from their relentless schedule. But today, the weight of something unspoken pressed down on him harder than ever.

It started small. The way conversations seemed to move around him instead of including him. The way Seungcheol, usually the one to pull everyone together, looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes. And then there was Woozi—sharp, focused Woozi—who had barely said a word to him all morning. That was when Seokmin knew. Something was wrong.

He just didn’t know what.

Then, Jeonghan spoke.

“We need to talk.”

The usual playfulness in Jeonghan’s voice was gone. His words were clipped, his expression carefully neutral. The way he stood—arms crossed, weight shifted slightly back—made it clear he was keeping some sort of distance. Seokmin’s stomach twisted.

The other members were already gathering, forming a loose circle around him. Their eyes flickered between each other, silent conversations happening in glances alone. Seokmin tried to swallow down the growing unease curling in his chest.

“What’s going on?” he asked, forcing a smile, even though his fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. “You all look so serious.”

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. “Seokmin,” he started, “we need you to be honest with us.”

Seokmin blinked, confused. “Honest about what?”

A pause. A hesitation. Then Mingyu, standing slightly behind Jeonghan, spoke.

“The articles.”

It was just two words, but the weight of them dropped like a stone in Seokmin’s stomach.

His heartbeat stuttered. “What… articles?”

Wonwoo, leaning against the mirror with his arms crossed, pulled out his phone. A few taps, a turn of the screen, and suddenly, Seokmin was staring at a headline that made his blood run cold.

“Exclusive: Insider Reveals SEVENTEEN’s Private Conflicts—Tensions Behind the Scenes”

The article went on to detail information that no outsider should have known. Private discussions. Schedule disputes. Frustrations about comeback delays. It was all laced with exaggeration, some parts twisted just enough to make the group look unstable.

And worst of all—there was a quote. A direct, attributed quote.

From him.

“An anonymous member of the group, reportedly DK, expressed concerns about the team’s future and tensions within the unit…”

Seokmin felt his body go rigid.

“What—” His voice caught. He looked up, his pulse hammering in his throat. “This isn’t me. I never said any of this.”

No one responded immediately.

Seungcheol’s arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw set. Woozi’s gaze was cold, unreadable. Minghao, standing toward the back, barely met his eyes. Even Joshua, usually warm and composed, looked at him with something like disappointment.

“I swear,” Seokmin said, his voice rising in desperation. “I didn’t do this. I don’t know where they got this from, but I—”

“Then why is your name attached to it?” Jeonghan asked, voice eerily calm. “It’s not just one article. There are multiple.”

Mingyu pulled up another on his phone. Seungkwan had one too.

Each one mentioned him. Each one painted him as the leak.

Seokmin’s breath came faster. “This—this is insane. You guys actually believe this? You think I would betray all of you?”

No one answered.

That silence cut deeper than any accusation.

His hands trembled at his sides. He turned to Hoshi, searching his face for something—anything—but even Hoshi, who had always been his closest friend in the group, wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“You really think I would do this?” Seokmin’s voice cracked, raw with disbelief. “You think I would throw away everything we’ve built together?”

Seungcheol let out a long breath. “Seokmin… we just need to understand what’s happening.”

Seokmin shook his head. “No, you don’t need to ‘understand.’ You’ve already made up your minds.”

Woozi’s voice was sharp when he spoke next. “Then tell us how this happened.”

“I don’t know!”

The words came out too loud, too desperate. His frustration clawed at his throat, mixing with the growing horror that no matter what he said, no matter how he pleaded, they weren’t listening.

They weren’t believing him.

____________________

The tension in the room stretched, thick and suffocating.

Hoshi, finally, let out a shaky breath. “We just… we just don’t know what to think, Seokmin.”

Seokmin let out a humorless laugh, though it sounded more like a choked sob. “That’s great. That’s really great.” He turned in a slow circle, looking at each of them. “You guys are supposed to be my family.”

The word hung in the air, and for a second, he thought maybe—just maybe—someone would speak up. That someone would tell him this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

But no one did.

Something inside him cracked.

He swallowed hard and turned away. “I didn’t do it,” he said again, quieter this time. “But if you don’t believe me, I don’t know what else to say.”

And then he walked out.

No one stopped him.

____________________

Seokmin barely felt his legs as he left the practice room. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest tightening with every step. The hallway outside was cold, the artificial lighting too harsh against his eyes, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get away—from their stares, from the weight of their silence pressing down on him like a physical force.

His hands trembled as he pressed the elevator button.

They really think I did it.

The realization hit like a blow to the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just suspicion. It wasn’t just confusion.

They believed it.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Seokmin stepped inside, pressing the button for a random floor. He wasn’t sure where he was going—he just needed to move, to breathe.

As soon as the doors closed, the shaking got worse. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms.

He thought of Seungcheol’s silence. Woozi’s sharp words. Mingyu’s disappointment. The way even Hoshi—the person who had been by his side through everything—had hesitated.

A bitter laugh escaped him, but it was hollow, empty. They didn’t even fight for me.

The elevator stopped, and he stepped out into a quiet hallway. The building felt different when he wasn’t surrounded by them—colder, lonelier.

For a moment, he just stood there, pressing his back against the wall, his head tilting back as he exhaled shakily. His heart was still racing, and no matter how many deep breaths he took, he couldn’t seem to slow it down.

He pulled out his phone, fingers unsteady as he opened his notifications. He wasn’t sure why—maybe some desperate part of him hoped for a message, a missed call, something—but there was nothing.

Nothing from them.

Instead, his screen was flooded with news alerts.

“SEVENTEEN’s DK Involved in Leaked Group Conflicts?”

“Insider Claims SEVENTEEN Facing Internal Tensions—DK at the Center”

“Is This the End for SEVENTEEN? Fans Concerned Amid Growing Controversy”

His own face stared back at him from the articles—pictures taken from fansites, from performances, from the group’s social media. Some headlines used words like alleged or rumored, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already being done.

His name was there. The accusations were there. And now, even the people who were supposed to know him best were looking at him like a stranger.

His grip on his phone tightened. His vision blurred.

He had to fix this.

He had to prove it wasn’t him.

But how?

And if they weren’t willing to listen…

Who would?

____________________

Back in the practice room, the atmosphere was suffocating.

No one spoke right away. The echoes of Seokmin’s last words still lingered in the air, hanging over them like a storm cloud.

Hoshi exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“Then what does?” Woozi’s voice was sharp, cutting. “Because this sure as hell isn’t normal.”

Mingyu sat down heavily on the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable. “What if…” He hesitated, glancing around before continuing, “What if we’re wrong?”

Seungcheol, standing by the mirror with his arms crossed, didn’t react immediately. But the slight tension in his posture gave him away.

“Then why hasn’t he denied it more strongly?” Jeonghan asked, his voice deceptively calm. “He just walked away.”

“Because we cornered him,” Joshua muttered.

Wonwoo finally spoke, his voice low. “If it wasn’t him… then who was it?”

No one had an answer.

And that silence—just like before—was louder than anything else.

____________________

Seokmin sat alone in the stairwell, his head resting against the wall. His breathing had evened out, but his hands were still clenched, his mind still racing.

I need proof.

That was the only way. If they wouldn’t believe his words, he had to find something tangible—something that would make them listen.

But he was starting from nothing.

And he was running out of time.

____________________

The days that followed felt like a blur—one long, crushing cycle of rehearsals, cold stares, and whispered conversations behind closed doors. Seokmin couldn’t escape the suffocating tension that clung to the air like smoke, filling his lungs with each breath he took.

He tried to keep his head down during practice, focusing on the moves, the lyrics, the steps. But it was impossible. Everywhere he looked, there was a glance turned away, a conversation cut short the moment he entered the room, a silence too loud to ignore.

He could feel it—the distance growing between him and the others.

It was getting worse.

The group’s treatment of him had shifted. What started as passive avoidance soon escalated into cold exclusion. It was subtle at first. A few seconds too long before anyone greeted him in the mornings. A small glance when he tried to join them for lunch, as if the chair next to them had suddenly become too heavy to sit in. But then it got sharper—harder to ignore.

Seungcheol, always the first to step up in times of need, had become distant. His leadership, which Seokmin had always admired, felt more like a silent judgment now.

“Can you take over the vocal line for this part?” Seungcheol asked one day, his voice flat. “We’ll have someone else step in for the rest of it.”

The rest of the members didn’t react, but the weight of Seungcheol’s decision hit Seokmin hard. He nodded, but it felt like his chest was caving in. They didn’t want him to sing anymore. He wasn’t a part of them—not really.

By the time they reached the end of the day’s practice, Seokmin couldn’t even look at the group. Every corner he turned, every step he took, he felt like he was walking deeper into isolation. And the worst part? They didn’t even seem to care.

____________________

In the days that followed, Seokmin’s anger simmered beneath the surface, but it never fully boiled over. He didn’t have the energy for it—not anymore. Every time he opened his mouth to defend himself, he was met with a wall. Every time he tried to reach out, his voice was drowned out by the noise of their indifference.

It wasn’t just that they were avoiding him—it was the way they looked at him now. Like he was a stranger. Like he was the enemy.

In the practice room one afternoon, the silence became unbearable. They were running through the choreography, but it was all mechanical—no passion, no energy. Seokmin felt his throat tighten as he sang, forcing himself to smile, to keep his head in the game.

But then, he caught the glance. It was brief, but it hit him like a slap.

Woozi was standing near the mirror, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were filled with something dark. Something that wasn’t just anger. It was distrust.

Seokmin felt his heart sink. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

“I think we should take a break,” Jeonghan said, his voice slicing through the tension. He looked at Seokmin with cool detachment. “Let’s pick this up later.”

Seokmin nodded stiffly, trying to ignore the way his fingers shook as he walked to the side of the room.

They don’t even care. They don’t even want to fix this.

He sank into a chair in the corner, staring blankly at the floor. Every breath felt like it was suffocating him, every beat of his heart felt like a betrayal. His mind kept spiraling—his thoughts tangling in a mess of frustration, confusion, and a deep, gnawing pain.

____________________

Seokmin tried to call them out. He really did.

One night, after a particularly long practice, he followed Seungcheol into the hallway, his heart racing. He needed to fix this. They had to believe him. They had to see that he hadn’t done anything.

“Hyung!” Seokmin’s voice echoed in the empty hallway. “Please, can we talk? You can’t really think I did this.”

Seungcheol stopped, but he didn’t turn around. His back was stiff, his shoulders tense.

“I don’t know, Seokmin,” he said quietly, his words cold. “Everything’s pointing to you. What are we supposed to think?”

“I didn’t do it!” Seokmin pleaded, his voice rising, desperation seeping into every word. “You know me. You know I wouldn’t—”

“Maybe you didn’t. But you’re not helping yourself.” Seungcheol’s tone was harsh, his words like daggers. “You’re making it worse by acting like this.”

Seokmin felt his throat tighten. The tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he fought them back. He wouldn’t break down in front of him—not like this.

“Please…” Seokmin whispered, his voice barely audible. “I just need you to believe me.”

There was a long pause, and then Seungcheol sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

“I can’t keep defending you if you’re not going to help yourself.” His words were final.

With that, Seungcheol walked away, leaving Seokmin standing in the hallway, his body shaking with the weight of it all.

____________________

Over the next few days, Seokmin felt himself unraveling. The isolation dug deeper, the frustration burning hotter, and the despair wrapping around him like chains. He tried to keep going—to show up for practice, to pretend like everything was normal—but it was getting harder. He was losing himself.

No one had even tried to reach out. No one had defended him.

He started to wonder if he ever really mattered to them at all.

____________________

Meanwhile, the rumors continued to swirl, growing bigger with each passing day. The articles, the false claims, the accusations—they were everywhere now, plastered across the internet, spreading like wildfire. The more Seokmin tried to clear his name, the worse it seemed to get.

And through it all, his group—his family—just stood there, watching.

No one spoke up. No one defended him.

They were all turning away.

____________________

It wasn’t just the silence that hurt. It was the absence of any attempt to make things right. Every morning, he woke up with a knot in his stomach, unsure if he could even face the people who had once felt like home. The weight of their disregard grew heavier, pressing him into a suffocating corner of his own mind, making each interaction feel like a cruel reminder of his isolation.

During one particularly difficult practice, the group was rehearsing the upcoming choreography for their next performance. The energy was low, the movements stiff, as if every one of them had a different agenda in mind—none of which involved actually working together. Seokmin’s eyes flicked over to the others, their faces drawn and focused, but not on him. His heart felt like it was slipping further out of reach.

"Seokmin, you're off on that part," Junhui said, his voice flat. He barely met Seokmin's eyes as he spoke, just going through the motions of pointing out the mistake. It was the way he said it—the lack of warmth, the absence of any hint that he cared—that sent a cold shiver through Seokmin’s spine.

He nodded silently, swallowing the lump in his throat. He tried to fix the error, but the sting of rejection only made him more self-conscious, more aware of how the others barely even acknowledged his presence now.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Not the way they dismissed him, nor the way they pretended nothing was wrong. Seokmin’s thoughts became a tangled mess of self-doubt and anger, swirling in his chest until he felt like he might implode. It was easier to just pull away—to keep his mouth shut, to avoid confronting the truth, because doing so meant admitting how broken everything had become.

After another long day of rehearsals, Seokmin found himself alone in the dressing room, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He barely recognized the face staring back at him. His eyes were tired, the usual spark gone, replaced by something dull and lifeless. The exhaustion had etched itself into his skin, and his heart felt like it was sinking deeper with each passing minute.

His phone buzzed on the table next to him. He glanced at it, half-expecting it to be one of the members, but it wasn’t. It was a message from his mother.

“How are you, Seokmin? I’ve been thinking about you. You’re strong. Don’t forget that.”

He stared at the message, his fingers hovering over the screen. His mother had always been his pillar, the one person who could make him feel like he could get through anything. But even her words, full of love and encouragement, couldn’t shake the cold emptiness that filled him.

It was like there was a wall between him and the rest of the world. No matter how much he reached out, no matter how hard he tried to prove his innocence, the wall just kept growing taller, and he felt smaller and smaller with each attempt.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thick. He needed to get out, to escape, even if just for a moment. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the room, not caring where he was going, just needing to be away from everyone, from everything.

____________________

Seokmin wandered through the streets of Seoul, the cool evening air biting at his skin. His steps were aimless, his mind too clouded to focus on anything but the constant ache in his chest. It was like a gnawing emptiness that he couldn’t fill, no matter how hard he tried.

The city was alive around him, people moving past in a blur, unaware of the storm raging inside him. He walked with no destination, just letting the night swallow him whole. It was easier to disappear like this, to blend into the noise and the crowds, than it was to face the reality of what had become of his life.

He finally stopped at a small park near the river, sitting on a bench and staring at the water below. The calm surface reflected the stars above, but it didn’t bring him any peace. It only reminded him of how far out of reach everything felt now. Even the things he had once held dear—his passion for singing, the brotherhood with his members—seemed so distant.

What happened?

His mind circled back to the beginning of it all—the day everything had changed. The day the accusations had started, when the world turned against him, and the people he trusted the most turned their backs. He could still hear the way Seungcheol had spoken to him, his voice so final, so unyielding. He could still feel the way Woozi had looked at him, the silent judgment in his eyes.

The world had felt like it was crashing down around him, and yet, no one had reached out to pick up the pieces.

He felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat, but it died before it could escape. There was nothing left to laugh about. No one had believed him. Not Seungcheol, not Woozi, not anyone.

In the stillness of the park, his phone buzzed again, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. It was a notification—another post. Another rumor about him, one that had twisted the truth even further. He swiped it away, his hand trembling. The idea that he could continue to live with this weight, with the accusations hanging over his head, was unbearable.

____________________

Back at the dorm, the atmosphere was worse than ever. There were no loud arguments, no confrontations. It was just an oppressive silence—an invisible wall that separated Seokmin from the others. They were all there, in the living room, sitting in their usual spots. But it didn’t feel like home. It felt like a place where strangers gathered, and Seokmin was the outsider.

He hesitated at the door, his fingers tightening around the handle. He could hear their voices from inside, faint murmurs that stopped the second the door creaked open.

Seungcheol was the first to look up, his expression unreadable. He didn't say anything. None of them did.

Seokmin’s chest tightened as he stepped into the room, but he couldn't bring himself to face them. Not right now. He couldn’t bear it.

Without a word, he turned and walked to his room, the cold air of the hallway swallowing him up as he closed the door behind him.

Once inside, he sank to his knees, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The emptiness, the isolation—it was too much to bear. His vision blurred, the tears finally breaking through the walls he had built around himself.

But no one came.

No one reached out.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Seokmin didn’t know how much longer he could keep holding on.

____________________

The next day arrived like any other. The silence between Seokmin and the rest of the group was deafening, but it was no longer the kind of silence that could be ignored. It was the kind that gnawed at his very soul, that made every interaction feel like a careful dance on a razor's edge. They all acted as if nothing had happened, as if the unspoken truth didn't hang heavily between them, suffocating the air.

Seokmin could barely breathe under the weight of it all.

He sat across from Woozi during breakfast, but his eyes refused to meet his. It was always like this now—an awkward distance that neither of them seemed willing to close. Woozi, who had once been his closest friend, the one who understood him without needing words, now felt like a stranger. Their conversations had become shallow, filled with polite pleasantries that never reached the surface. Seokmin didn’t even know who Woozi was anymore.

After a few minutes, Woozi glanced up from his plate, and for the first time in days, Seokmin caught his gaze. The brief connection shattered the fragile bubble of silence, and the weight of it almost made Seokmin collapse under its pressure. Woozi’s eyes were guarded, unreadable, but there was something there—something Seokmin had longed to see. Regret.

But still, nothing was said.

The others, too, were distant, a million miles apart, each locked in their own separate worlds, pretending as if nothing had changed. No one made an effort to reach out. No one broke the silence.

It was like they were waiting for something.

Seokmin, however, had reached his breaking point.

____________________

That afternoon, they gathered for practice. The usual tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Every movement, every note seemed to fall flat, and Seokmin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched—studied like a specimen in a lab. Their glances, fleeting but full of judgment, made him feel like he was being dissected, analyzed from every angle. He didn’t know how much longer he could pretend everything was fine.

Midway through a complicated vocal run, Seokmin faltered, his voice cracking on the high note. His mistake was small, but it was enough to snap the fragile thread of his control. He could feel the eyes on him immediately—Seungcheol's, Woozi’s, even Hoshi's. They were all watching, waiting for him to mess up again, just like they had always expected.

Before he could stop himself, he threw down his mic and stepped back, the frustration bubbling over.

"I can't do this anymore," Seokmin said, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and pain. "I can't keep pretending like I'm okay. I can’t keep being the one you all talk about behind my back, like I’m some sort of villain."

The room fell deathly silent.

The words hung in the air like a sharp blade, cutting through the tension that had built up over the past weeks. No one spoke. No one moved.

It was Seungcheol who finally broke the silence, his voice low, cautious. "Seokmin, what are you talking about?"

Seokmin’s heart slammed against his chest, the rawness of his emotions pouring through the cracks he had worked so hard to keep hidden. He was done being silent. He was done pretending.

"I'm talking about the way you've all been treating me," he spat, his fists trembling at his sides. "The accusations, the looks, the way you just... shut me out. Do you have any idea what it's been like, living like this? Every day, wondering if I’ll ever be enough for any of you again."

Seungcheol took a step forward, but Seokmin took a step back, his eyes wild with pain. "You think I haven’t noticed? That I don’t see the way you look at me now? Like I’m some kind of burden? Well, newsflash: I’m not going to sit here and let you tear me apart anymore."

He was shaking now, his voice cracking, but he didn’t care. He needed to get it out. He needed them to understand.

“I never asked for any of this,” he continued, his breath ragged. “I never asked for these rumors to destroy everything. But you’ve all let it happen. You’ve let me be the scapegoat, the one everyone blames. And you haven’t done a damn thing to fix it."

The room was still, suffocating in its silence, but Seokmin refused to look away. He could feel the weight of their stares, the weight of his own words. This wasn’t just about the accusations anymore—it was about the betrayal, the fact that the people he had trusted the most had allowed him to drown alone.

Seungcheol looked torn, his brow furrowed as he took another step forward. “Seokmin, you have to understand that—”

“No,” Seokmin interrupted, his voice growing louder. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to make excuses. You’ve all let this happen, and I’ve been too damn afraid to call you out on it. But not anymore.”

The air in the room was thick with tension, every member frozen, caught between guilt and confusion. Seokmin could feel their unease, their discomfort. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want apologies or excuses. He wanted them to understand the pain they had caused him. The scars they had left.

“I’m not going to sit here and let you pretend like everything’s fine,” Seokmin finished, his voice shaking with raw emotion. “If you really care about me, if you really want to fix this, then do something. Don’t just keep pretending like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. And I do.”

He turned and left, not waiting for anyone to stop him, not caring if they tried to call after him. He couldn’t stand being in that room anymore, couldn’t stand the weight of their eyes on him, couldn’t stand the way the cracks between them had grown too wide to fix with just words.

____________________

Seokmin spent the rest of the day in his room, locked away from everything, from everyone. He needed space, needed time to process the explosion of emotions that had just consumed him.

But even as he sat in the quiet of his room, he knew that something had shifted. The wall between him and the others had been cracked open. It wasn’t a clean break—it wasn’t a resolution—but it was a reckoning.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the first step toward fixing what had been broken.

____________________

Later that evening, the members gathered in the practice room once more. The air felt different—charged with anticipation. Seokmin had made his decision. He wasn’t going to let the truth stay buried any longer.

Seungcheol, still reeling from Seokmin’s outburst, stood at the front, watching the others carefully. “Seokmin, what’s going on?” he asked, his voice softer now. “We need to understand. We’ve got to clear the air.”

Seokmin walked in, his hands slightly trembling but his expression resolute. He was holding a thick folder—one that had been carefully tucked away for far too long. Without a word, he slammed it onto the table in front of the group.

“This is the proof,” he said, his voice sharp and steady. “Proof that I didn’t leak any information. You’ve all been blaming me, accusing me without knowing the full story. Well, now you’re going to know everything.”

Seokmin paused, meeting each of their eyes before flipping open the folder to reveal printed messages, emails, and screenshots. “It wasn’t me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “It was him.”

The members leaned in, confusion and curiosity written on their faces as they sifted through the evidence. Seokmin’s finger traced the name on one of the emails—an ex-manager of the group, someone they had all trusted once, but had since lost his job for questionable behavior. A man who had wanted revenge.

“I knew something was off,” Seokmin continued, his throat tight. “I found out a few days ago, after weeks of investigating. I was just waiting for the right moment to show you. This guy—he leaked our private information. Our schedules, activities, personal details—he sold it to the media. And then he pointed the finger at me, framing me for something I didn’t do. He’s been trying to destroy me, to get back at me for getting him fired.”

The members were stunned into silence. Seungcheol looked at Seokmin, his face pale. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” he asked, the guilt heavy in his voice.

“I didn’t know if you’d believe me,” Seokmin replied quietly. “I didn’t think you’d listen.”

Seungcheol sighed deeply, regret evident in his expression. “We’ve been blind. I’ve been blind.”

Hoshi was the first to speak up, his voice tinged with shock. “How did you even find this? This is... a lot.”

Seokmin exhaled slowly, finally letting himself relax just a little. “I’ve been looking into this for a while. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I knew I couldn’t let this go on. I had to clear my name.”

The weight of the truth hung in the air, thick and undeniable. The others were slowly starting to process it, the realization that they had been wrong, that they had been manipulated, sinking in.

“We’re sorry, Seokmin,” Seungcheol finally said, his voice full of sincerity. “We should’ve listened to you. We should’ve trusted you.”

Seokmin nodded, his throat tight. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was a step—a step toward healing.

Seokmin took a deep breath, his chest tight with the weight of the words, and with a final glance over his shoulder, he turned and walked away, heading back to the dorm.

____________________

Seokmin didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, knees drawn to his chest, his mind a whirlwind of anger, hurt, and confusion. Every time he closed his eyes, the faces of his members flickered before him—Seungcheol’s frustrated frown, Woozi’s guilty expression, the others’ blank stares. His hands were trembling, and he curled them into fists, biting back the overwhelming wave of emotions that threatened to drown him.

He hated this. He hated feeling so small. So exposed. But most of all, he hated that it had come to this—the breaking point, where everything between them had been reduced to shards of silence and bitter words.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, but Seokmin didn’t even look at it. He knew who it was. He knew what they would want to say, and he didn’t have the strength to face it. Not yet.

But then it buzzed again. And again.

A knock on the door.

Seokmin didn’t move.

The knock was tentative, almost like they weren’t sure if they should interrupt him. But he couldn’t ignore it. With a deep breath, he stood up, his legs stiff and unsteady, and opened the door to reveal Seungcheol standing in the hallway. His expression was conflicted, a mix of determination and something else—something softer. Something Seokmin wasn’t sure he wanted to see.

“Seokmin,” Seungcheol began, his voice quiet. “Can we talk?”

Seokmin felt a pang of frustration flare in his chest. Can we talk? Of course, they wanted to talk now. After everything had happened, after he had finally exploded in front of them, now they wanted to fix it?

But despite the bitterness curling in his throat, he nodded, stepping aside to let Seungcheol in. The taller man hesitated before entering, and Seokmin closed the door behind him with a soft click. The silence that followed was thick, stifling.

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, clearly unsure of where to start. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

The apology was heavy, loaded with more meaning than Seokmin had expected. But still, it didn’t feel like enough. “Sorry for what?” Seokmin asked, his voice sharp, colder than he intended. “For letting me go through all of this alone? For pretending like nothing was wrong while I was falling apart? For letting the rumors spread like wildfire and never stepping in to help? For believing the articles over me?”

Seungcheol winced at the words, as if each one was a physical blow. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, Seokmin almost felt guilty for how harsh he sounded. But no, he couldn’t apologize for feeling the way he did. Not anymore.

“I didn’t mean to let it get this far,” Seungcheol replied, his eyes downcast. “I didn’t realize how bad it was… how much it was affecting you. I should’ve done something sooner.”

Seokmin clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to break down. It wasn’t just Seungcheol. It was all of them. They all should have done something sooner.

“I’ve been carrying this alone for so long,” Seokmin said, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to keep it steady. “I’ve been drowning in this and no one even noticed. No one asked if I was okay, no one cared enough to check in, not even you, hyung. You were so wrapped up in your own stress and responsibility that I didn’t even exist anymore. I became a ghost to you.”

The words were out before Seokmin could stop them, and he hated himself for sounding so broken. But the floodgates had opened, and now he couldn’t stop the flood of everything he had kept inside.

Seungcheol was silent, his eyes searching Seokmin’s face as though he were seeing him for the first time. The guilt on his face was palpable. But Seokmin couldn’t forgive him—not yet.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol repeated, but there was something else in his voice now—a deeper sincerity. “You’re right. I’ve failed you. I’ve failed all of you.”

Seokmin didn’t answer immediately. He wanted to, wanted to scream and tell Seungcheol everything that had been eating away at him, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not without the rest of them here, not without seeing if they truly understood.

“You don’t have to apologize for me to forgive you, hyung,” Seokmin said softly. “But you need to show me, you need to prove it. I can’t go back to being the Seokmin you all used to know. I’m not that person anymore.”

The words hung between them like an unspoken promise, a challenge, a plea for change.

Seungcheol nodded, his eyes serious, the weight of the conversation settling on his shoulders. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said quietly. “We’ll fix this. Together.”

Seokmin didn’t know if he believed him. He didn’t know if things could ever go back to the way they were before the rumors, before the pain. But for the first time in what felt like forever, a small flicker of hope stirred in his chest. Maybe this was the beginning of something different. Something better.

“I just… I need some time,” Seokmin said, the words coming out in a whisper. “I need time to heal, and I need time to figure out if I can trust you all again.”

Seungcheol nodded once more. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in weeks, Seokmin allowed himself to believe it.

____________________

Later that evening, the rest of the members gathered, one by one, outside Seokmin’s door. No one said much as they stood there, unsure of how to approach him. But Seungcheol was with them, and somehow, that made the air feel a little less suffocating.

It was Woozi who stepped forward first, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ve all been wrong. I’ve been wrong. We all should’ve done better, should’ve been there for you. But if you’re willing to let us, we’ll try to fix it. We’ll try to make it right.”

Seokmin looked around at each of their faces—Seungcheol, Woozi, Joshua, Hoshi, Mingyu, all of them. And though he couldn’t quite bring himself to forgive them yet, there was a part of him that saw the sincerity in their eyes.

The reckoning had come. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward.

But only time would tell.

____________________

The days after the confrontation were quieter, but not easier. Seokmin spent a lot of time alone, reflecting, piecing together the chaos of the last few weeks. The air was thick with the unsaid, with apologies that lingered unspoken and trust that had been broken but not entirely lost.

Seungcheol had kept his promise, giving Seokmin the space he needed. The others followed suit, each of them reaching out in their own ways but never pushing. They knew they couldn’t undo what had been done, but they were trying—really trying—to be better. And for the first time in a long while, Seokmin allowed himself to think that maybe things could change.

But healing was never as simple as letting time pass.

Seokmin had always been the bright one, the one who lit up a room with his smile, the one who could laugh away anything, no matter how hard things got. That’s what everyone saw. That’s what they expected. But now, in the quiet moments when the world around him seemed to stand still, he felt the weight of everything—the hurt, the confusion, the resentment—sinking deeper. No matter how many smiles he put on, no matter how many laughs he forced, the crack in his heart wouldn’t close.

He didn’t trust himself anymore.

The studio was quieter than usual the next day, the usual energy dampened by the thick fog of tension that still hung in the air. As Seokmin sat in front of the mirror, his hands hovering above the keyboard, he caught sight of the reflection of his members, scattered across the room, talking in low voices. Their eyes kept drifting to him, like they weren’t sure if they could approach him just yet.

His breath caught in his throat, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the screen in front of him. He didn’t want to see their pity, didn’t want to feel like a charity case. He wanted them to look at him the way they had before, like he was still a part of them—not someone broken, someone who needed fixing.

But they couldn’t help it. They had failed him. They couldn’t undo that.

"Seokmin?" Seungkwan's voice was tentative, like he was afraid to make the wrong move. He stood a few feet away, glancing at Seokmin from the corner of his eye. "Can we talk for a second?"

Seokmin didn’t look up. He could hear the hesitation in Seungkwan’s voice, the carefulness. He wanted to tell him to go away, to leave him alone, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

"Yeah," Seokmin muttered, his voice rough.

Seungkwan slowly stepped forward, sitting on the edge of the couch, his gaze soft but steady. "You’ve been quiet lately," he began, his tone light but concerned. "We... we know we messed up. We know we hurt you. And we don’t expect you to forgive us right away, but... we’re all here. Whenever you’re ready."

Seokmin could feel the lump in his throat. He wanted to yell, to ask why it had to come to this point, to ask why they had never noticed. But he couldn’t. He swallowed the frustration, the bitterness, and let the silence fall between them.

"I’m just... trying to figure things out," Seokmin said after a long moment. "I don’t know if I can forgive you yet. I don’t know if I can go back to how things were before. But I’ll try."

Seungkwan’s face softened, and he nodded. "That’s all we can ask for."

For a while, the two of them sat in silence. The weight of the conversation settled between them, but there was something comforting about it, something that made Seokmin feel like maybe, just maybe, there was room for them to rebuild.

The following weeks passed in a slow haze. There were moments of tension, where Seokmin would catch a stray comment or a glance from one of his members that made his chest tighten. And there were other moments, too, where they worked together, laughed together, and for a brief second, everything felt normal. But the cracks were still there, still visible to him even if no one else seemed to notice.

The group dynamic was different now, tentative, like they were walking on eggshells around him. But that was okay. He needed this distance. He needed to figure out how to heal, how to reclaim the parts of himself he’d buried beneath the weight of everything.

One afternoon, as they sat together during a break, Mingyu caught Seokmin’s gaze across the room. His face was open, vulnerable, and Seokmin felt a strange sense of warmth bubble up inside him. For the first time in weeks, Mingyu smiled—genuinely—and Seokmin returned the gesture, just a small tug at the corner of his lips.

It wasn’t everything. It wasn’t perfect. But it was a start.

Later that evening, Seokmin stood by the window, staring out into the city, his reflection staring back at him. He could hear the faint sounds of the others in the next room, the quiet hum of their voices blending into the soft music playing in the background.

They weren’t perfect. He wasn’t perfect. But maybe that’s what it meant to be human. To make mistakes, to hurt, and to try again. He didn’t have all the answers, but he had something now—an understanding, a resolve that maybe he could heal, slowly but surely.

The aftermath wasn’t easy, and it wouldn’t be quick. But Seokmin had made it this far, and he would keep going, one day at a time.

Chapter Text

The morning light creeps through the blinds, casting gentle, dappled shadows across the floor. A faint hum of activity rises from the dorm’s kitchen, mingling with the sounds of alarm clocks blaring and the usual morning grumbles from the other members. But, amidst the early chaos of fifteen-minute showers and hastily prepared breakfasts, one particular corner of the dorm holds a different kind of energy.

Seokmin is already up, of course. His wide-eyed enthusiasm for the early hours is both a gift and a curse for everyone else in the dorm. While others are still fighting their blankets in a desperate attempt to snooze for just five more minutes, Seokmin is bouncing off the walls, practically vibrating with energy that should have been illegal at this time of day.

“Good morning, world!” Seokmin exclaims, practically shouting into the empty kitchen as he rummages through the fridge, the door swinging open with a clatter that could wake the entire neighborhood. The refrigerator's contents are still in their early stages of organization—half-empty cartons of juice, stray containers of leftovers, and a lone bottle of milk that’s nearing its expiration date.

A yawn from the hallway signals the first sign of life from one of his roommates. It’s Mingyu, who stumbles into the kitchen, half asleep, his hair wild and messy like a bird's nest. Seokmin grins, the chaos in his chest already well underway.

Mingyu doesn’t respond to the greeting. Instead, he lets out a groggy, “Mm, Seokmin… Why are you yelling this early?”

Seokmin laughs, his voice high-pitched and full of the kind of enthusiasm that could rival a toddler on their birthday. “Because it’s the best part of the day, Mingyu! How else are you going to get your energy up if not with a loud, dramatic ‘good morning’?” He looks over at Mingyu’s bleary eyes and winks. “Plus, you needed to wake up sometime.”

Mingyu rubs his face, muttering something about needing a strong cup of coffee to deal with Seokmin's early-morning cheer. His movements are sluggish, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with the demand to be awake yet. But even in his exhausted state, there’s an undeniable warmth to Mingyu. His eyes, though still half-lidded, are soft as he looks over at Seokmin.

Seokmin, in contrast, is already dancing around the kitchen, tossing ingredients into the air like some sort of deranged cooking show host. Eggs crack with a sharp pop, sizzling immediately on the hot pan as Seokmin hums an upbeat tune that sounds vaguely like a pop song stuck in his head. His face breaks into a grin as he flings flour into the air—unsurprisingly getting some on Mingyu’s head.

“Seokmin!” Mingyu exclaims, but there’s no real force behind his words. It’s a familiar dance by now. Seokmin is a hurricane of uncontained energy, and Mingyu is the calm that somehow survives the storm.

“Oops, my bad! You make the best canvas for my flour art,” Seokmin teases, but his eyes gleam with affection, just barely hidden beneath the mess of his chaotic smile. He reaches over, grabbing a dish towel, but before he can attempt to wipe the flour off Mingyu’s hair, the taller man simply shrugs, accepting his fate.

“I should’ve known,” Mingyu mutters, staring at the white powder in his hair with a resigned sigh. “I should’ve just stayed in bed. This is my punishment for not getting up earlier.”

Seokmin beams, hands on his hips as he surveys his work. “Nah, this is just a warm-up! You know, the morning chaos is part of the fun. Otherwise, what’s a morning without a little drama?”

Mingyu gives him a sideways glance, then stumbles toward the table to grab a mug from the drying rack. He doesn’t speak, just quietly accepts the fact that he’s now part of the morning mayhem.

The two of them settle into their usual routine. Mingyu, now fully awake but still silently cursing Seokmin’s energy, begins to brew coffee while Seokmin continues to make noise in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a breakfast that’s sure to be as chaotic as the rest of their morning.

Seokmin’s cooking is unpredictable at best. Sometimes it’s a delicious concoction of pancakes and eggs, other times it’s an experiment that might result in an inedible disaster. But in the world of Seokmin’s morning chaos, everything is part of the fun. There’s an infectious warmth in the way he insists that they should “always try something new,” even if it’s just a batch of overly salted toast or the occasional half-burnt omelette.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Seokmin asks, as he flips a pancake with the grace of a seasoned chef—or at least that’s what he tells himself.

Mingyu, now properly caffeinated, takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing the eggs in Seokmin’s pan with a skeptical glance. “It smells like disaster waiting to happen.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Seokmin laughs, turning to Mingyu with a mock-scowl. “My food always has an… unique flavor.”

Mingyu leans back in his chair, stretching his long legs out. “Unique flavor. Sure, that’s one way to put it.”

But there’s no malice in his words, just the kind of teasing that only the two of them know how to pull off. It’s like a private language they’ve developed over years of friendship—filled with sarcasm and affection that no one else quite understands.

Seokmin finally serves up the breakfast, and although it’s nothing particularly extravagant, it’s served with all the care that he puts into every little thing. A warm, quiet moment fills the kitchen as the two of them sit down to eat, the soft hum of a song playing in the background.

The meal itself isn’t the main event—it’s the comfort they find in each other’s presence. Seokmin’s chaotic energy balances by Mingyu’s quiet steadiness, and in this moment, despite the mess and noise, there’s an undeniable sense of peace.

It’s not about the perfect breakfast or even the absence of drama. It’s about knowing that no matter how different their mornings are, they have each other. They’ve found this small haven in the mundane, in the noise, in the chaos of their daily lives as idols. They don’t need grand gestures or moments of perfection. All they need is this—this simple, quiet comfort that only comes from being fully understood by someone who has always been there.

As Seokmin reaches for another pancake, his hand brushes against Mingyu’s, a simple, fleeting moment that carries more meaning than either of them might admit.

“Thanks for sticking around,” Seokmin says softly, almost to himself. His voice carries a quiet sincerity that cuts through the lightheartedness of their morning.

Mingyu glances up from his cup, meeting Seokmin’s gaze with a smile that’s equal parts affectionate and slightly amused. “You’re a lot to handle, but someone’s got to do it.”

And just like that, the day begins. The chaos and comfort continue, always intertwined, always present, just like the bond they share.

____________________

The silence that follows feels like a breath after a good laugh, comfortable in its quiet. The tension in the room softens, and the morning chaos seems to settle just a bit. Seokmin, now halfway through a perfectly crispy pancake (and still trying to convince Mingyu it’s the best thing he’s ever made), shoots a sideways glance at the tall figure across from him.

Mingyu isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s poking at his food with a fork, his thoughts wandering, his usually sharp features softened by the calm of the early hours. Seokmin watches him with a fond smile, knowing exactly how much Mingyu dislikes mornings—but somehow, he always ends up in the kitchen with him, anyway. It’s like this unspoken pact they have, a routine of companionship they’ve both come to rely on.

“Hey, you still need to practice your lines for the show that you have in some days?” Seokmin asks, breaking the silence with a light, playful tone. He leans back in his chair, still tapping his fork lightly on the table. “You know, I think you should give up on the acting thing and just become a professional napper. You’re really good at it, Gyu.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow without looking up from his breakfast. “I don’t need any more hobbies, Seok. But thanks for the suggestion. I’ll think about it.”

Seokmin chuckles, taking a dramatic sip from his cup as though he’s just offered the most life-changing advice of the century. “No problem. I’m always here for you.”

Mingyu sighs, his lips curling into a smile as he shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me,” Seokmin teases, pushing his plate to the side now that he’s finished eating. He leans across the table, narrowing his eyes at Mingyu. “Admit it.”

“I’ll admit it when you stop waking me up at 7:30 in the morning and yelling into the kitchen,” Mingyu shoots back dryly, but his tone carries no real annoyance. It’s an easy back-and-forth they’ve perfected over years.

Seokmin snickers, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. He knows exactly what Mingyu means by ridiculous, and he wears it like a badge of honor. He could probably drive anyone else crazy with his overzealous cheer, but Mingyu never minds. In fact, it’s a strange kind of comfort between them—a pattern of chaos that feels oddly grounded in its predictability. They’ve somehow found a balance, even when it feels like they should be opposites.

Seokmin watches as Mingyu finishes his coffee, his movements slow but deliberate, eyes half-lidded, lost in thought. The morning sunlight hits his face just right, casting a soft glow that makes Seokmin pause for a moment, heart swelling at the sight of his friend.

Seokmin is quick to change the subject, his tone lighter. “Wanna go for a walk later? Get out of the house before the fans show up with their cameras? I can’t handle another round of impromptu fan selfies where I don’t even have time to fix my hair.”

Mingyu snorts, placing his empty cup down with a soft clink. “You mean the same hair that’s never fixed in the first place?”

Seokmin dramatically flops his head to the side, pretending to be deeply offended. “This hair is art. Pure genius.”

Mingyu just shakes his head again, but his smile is genuine. “You’re definitely something.”

“Definitely something special,” Seokmin agrees with a grin. “And I know you can’t get enough of me. Admit it.”

Mingyu chuckles softly, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, and Seokmin feels that warmth spread through him—a familiar, comforting kind of connection. It’s moments like this, small exchanges, small jabs, that make up the everyday magic of their friendship. They don’t need anything flashy to be content; just the simple act of being in each other’s presence is enough.

“Alright, alright,” Mingyu says, finally rising from his chair with a stretch that makes Seokmin’s jaw drop in exaggerated awe. “I’ll go for the walk. But only if we can stop by the bakery. I’m still kind of mad you made me eat burnt toast for breakfast last week.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad,” Seokmin protests, his voice a mix of defense and laughter. “And you ate it all anyway, so…”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow at him, clearly not buying it. “Only because I was too hungry to care. But you’re lucky I like you, Seokmin. Otherwise, I’d never let you get away with it.”

Seokmin pouts dramatically, looking as though his entire life has been turned upside down. “You wound me, Mingyu. I’ll make you the best breakfast tomorrow. Promise.”

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Mingyu says, but it’s said with the kind of warmth that shows he knows exactly what Seokmin means. He heads toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the entrance. “Let’s go then. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.”

Seokmin jumps up from the table, practically bouncing in excitement. “I’m on it! You’ll see, tomorrow’s breakfast is going to be a masterpiece!”

Mingyu opens the door, stepping out into the quiet hallway of the dorm before glancing back over his shoulder. “I’m not holding my breath.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll live up to the hype. You’ll be begging for my pancakes,” Seokmin calls out with a grin that’s entirely too confident for someone who can barely handle cooking on a good day.

They both head out, the door clicking shut behind them as they walk down the corridor toward the staircase. It’s the kind of morning they’ve shared countless times before—filled with playful banter, easy laughter, and a camaraderie that no one else quite understands. Just the two of them, navigating the small moments of their everyday lives, finding joy in the mundane.

As they head outside into the soft spring air, Mingyu feels a quiet kind of peace settle over him. He may not have asked for a life filled with morning chaos and flour explosions, but somehow, it’s exactly what he’s come to love.

Seokmin bounces ahead, calling back, “Let’s go, slowpoke! The bakery’s not going to wait for us!”

And Mingyu, with a soft smile tugging at his lips, follows his friend. After all, how could he not?

____________________

The sound of distant chatter and the occasional laughter echoes through the bustling streets, but inside the small café that Seokmin and Mingyu have found, the world feels muted. The warm golden light from the pendant lamps above casts soft shadows, wrapping the two of them in a cocoon of quiet. The soft hum of music—an old ballad Seokmin can’t place—plays in the background, and for a moment, they’re simply content, without any need for words.

Seokmin takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee cup as if lost in the comfort of the familiar moment. Mingyu, on the other hand, is staring out the window, watching the world pass by with that far-off gaze that Seokmin’s come to recognize as the prelude to something more thoughtful.

“You ever think about how lucky we are?” Seokmin asks casually, though there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes Mingyu blink in surprise. It’s the kind of question that catches you off guard, but once asked, lingers in the air.

Mingyu turns his head slowly, glancing at Seokmin, his eyebrows furrowed in that way he does when he’s trying to figure out just what Seokmin’s getting at. “Lucky?” he echoes, looking slightly puzzled. “In what way?”

Seokmin shrugs, the corner of his lips lifting in a playful smile. “I don’t know. Just… lucky that we’ve got each other. Lucky to be able to do what we love. Lucky that we can make the kind of memories we want. You know, we’ve got a lot of things most people don’t.”

Mingyu’s eyes soften, and for a second, it’s like he’s looking at Seokmin not just as his best friend, but as someone who truly understands the complexities of his thoughts. The kind of person who asks the questions that make you stop and think about life’s quieter moments. He laughs lightly, though there’s a warmth to it, as though the weight of Seokmin’s words has already settled into him.

“Yeah,” Mingyu says slowly, his voice softening. “I guess we do. I never really thought about it like that.”

Seokmin leans forward, his eyes narrowing playfully as he shoots Mingyu a look. “You mean you don’t sit there in your room late at night, staring out the window and pondering the deep mysteries of the universe?”

Mingyu chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to suppress a smile. “I’ll leave that to you, Mr. Philosopher.”

“Smart choice,” Seokmin grins, his voice light but filled with affection. He takes a sip of his coffee, savoring the warmth as the flavors swirl on his tongue. “But seriously, Gyu, there’s something special about this time in our lives. I think we’re going to look back on these years and remember all the little moments—the things we thought were insignificant—and realize they were the most important.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first. He simply watches Seokmin, his gaze thoughtful as the song playing in the background shifts, taking on a more nostalgic tone. Seokmin, ever the one to inject energy into any conversation, waits for Mingyu to speak. He’s used to the quiet pauses, the moments where Mingyu needs time to digest things before responding.

“Sometimes I forget how much we’ve done,” Mingyu finally says, his voice quieter now, a faraway edge to it. “How much we’ve changed. The things we’ve been through. The struggles, the wins. And through all of it, there’s you.”

Seokmin raises an eyebrow, leaning back with a teasing smile. “Oh? I’m the one constant in your life?”

Mingyu smirks, but there’s a hint of sincerity behind the teasing. “I mean, who else is going to keep me from being clumsy in the kitchen? Or talk to me when I’m overthinking everything?”

Seokmin laughs, the sound easy and free. “You’d probably survive just fine without me.”

Mingyu shakes his head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not so sure about that. Besides, you’re like my personal therapist. Without you, I think I’d be a mess.”

“Good thing I’m always here to help, right?” Seokmin’s grin widens, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he leans in again. “Also, I like being the only one who gets to see you in your full chaotic glory. Nobody else gets to experience that side of you.”

Mingyu chuckles, shaking his head with a soft sigh. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“And I’m lucky you don’t know how to get rid of me,” Seokmin shoots back, his voice light but full of affection. “You wouldn’t want to live without me.”

Mingyu’s eyes flicker with amusement, but instead of responding with more sarcasm, he simply watches Seokmin for a long moment. The silence that follows is soft, almost comfortable, as if the words they’ve shared have created a shared space of understanding between them.

There’s something uniquely comforting in that—something that Seokmin has never quite been able to put into words. But the way Mingyu is looking at him now, the faintest trace of a smile still playing on his lips, speaks volumes. He doesn’t need to say it aloud to know it’s true. They’ve built something lasting, something real, and it’s woven into the small moments like this.

As if on cue, the barista comes over to their table, placing down a fresh batch of pastries. Seokmin grins widely, clearly excited about the surprise. “I didn’t order these, but I’m definitely not complaining.”

Mingyu looks at the pastries, his eyes widening in mock horror. “You’re not going to eat all of them, right?”

Seokmin grins, already reaching for the nearest one. “I mean, someone’s gotta finish them. And since you’ve been staring out the window looking like a sad puppy, I figured I’d take one for the team.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Mingyu mutters, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He reaches for one, his fingers brushing Seokmin’s as he grabs a cinnamon roll. The touch is brief, but for some reason, it sends a little jolt through Seokmin’s chest. Not anything overwhelming, just a reminder that, despite everything else, these moments with Mingyu are always easy—effortless, even.

As they both dig in, the conversation shifts again, this time to talk of upcoming schedules and group activities. They fall into their usual rhythm—lighthearted banter, easy laughter, the occasional teasing about who’s got the better voice or dance moves. But every now and then, Seokmin catches himself staring at Mingyu, at the way his eyes light up when he talks about his dreams or the way he smiles, half-hidden behind a pastry.

They’ve been through a lot together, seen each other at their best and their worst, but somehow, these moments—these quiet, everyday exchanges—feel like the most important memories of all. Seokmin knows this is a friendship that, no matter how much they change or grow, will always remain constant.

And for that, he’s incredibly grateful.

____________________

The rhythmic sound of the pastry’s crunch in Seokmin’s mouth is interrupted by the soft jingle of the café door. A gust of spring air sweeps in, and the sudden rush of sunlight makes the room feel even warmer, like a quiet invitation to relax a little longer. The world outside feels far away, as though nothing could touch the serenity they’ve found in their corner of the world. Mingyu and Seokmin exchange a glance, unspoken words passing between them. In moments like this, it’s easy to forget the pressures of their schedules or the responsibilities they carry.

“I can’t believe we’re almost done with the tour,” Mingyu says, a soft laugh in his voice as he takes another bite of his cinnamon roll. He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out above his head, and for a brief moment, Seokmin can see the weariness in his friend’s posture—the kind that only comes after long days filled with performances, rehearsals, and the weight of expectations.

Seokmin watches him carefully, his eyes softening. “Yeah, it feels like it flew by. But also… it’s been so exhausting.” He shifts his posture, leaning forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Do you ever wonder what it’ll be like when everything settles down?”

Mingyu looks at him, his gaze distant for a moment as if pondering the same thought. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ll always be busy, in one way or another. But I do wonder… will we ever be able to do something like this, just the two of us, without the whole world around us?”

Seokmin smiles, the corners of his lips tugging up in a quiet understanding. “Maybe not forever. But I think we’ll find ways to keep this. To hold on to the small moments.” He pauses, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly full of that playful energy he’s known for. “We could always start blogging our trips, just the two of us. A camera, some fun, and a little bit of awkward charm.”

Mingyu laughs, his eyes lighting up in amusement. “You’re ridiculous. But, honestly, I wouldn’t mind. We’d probably make the worst duo ever, but it’d be fun.”

Seokmin’s grin widens, and he leans back in his chair, hands resting behind his head. “We could tour the world. People would line up just to see our content while we make a fool of ourselves.”

“I don’t think they’d come for the vidoes,” Mingyu says with a smirk, but there’s a hint of warmth in his voice. “But I like the idea. There’s something about being with you, just goofing around, that feels better than anything else.”

Their laughter fills the air for a moment, light and easy. It’s a perfect bubble, a moment in time where everything feels right. Even if they’re just two friends, sitting in a quiet café, eating pastries and talking about nonsense, it’s enough. The world outside doesn’t matter, the chaos of the tour doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re here, sharing this moment.

After a while, the conversation begins to slow, and the two of them simply sit there, letting the quiet of the café settle around them. The music playing overhead is now something Seokmin recognizes—an old classic from their childhood, something he used to hear on the radio when he was younger. The melody is comforting, familiar, like an old friend returning to say hello.

“You remember when we first met?” Seokmin asks, his voice quieter now. He picks at the edge of his napkin, his thoughts drifting back to the very beginning of everything.

Mingyu’s expression softens, and he nods slowly, a nostalgic smile creeping onto his face. “Yeah. You were… well, you were kind of a mess. But in a good way, I guess.”

Seokmin chuckles, his eyes twinkling with that mischievous glint. “A mess? Me? I was perfect.”

“You were always tripping over your own feet,” Mingyu counters, his tone teasing but warm. “And you couldn’t hold a note to save your life.”

Seokmin mock-glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Excuse me, I had potential.”

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head fondly. “Sure, sure. But seriously, you were the first person who wasn’t afraid to be yourself. Even back then, when everything was new and overwhelming, you just… went for it. And it was the most refreshing thing ever.”

Seokmin tilts his head, studying Mingyu with an unreadable expression. “I think that’s why we’re still here, don’t you? We were both so raw back then—just starting out, unsure of everything, but somehow, we never lost sight of what we wanted. Not when things got tough.”

Mingyu pauses, his eyes briefly shifting away, a thoughtful expression flickering across his face. The mood between them shifts slightly, becoming more introspective as the song continues to play in the background. “Yeah,” Mingyu says softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I guess that’s why we clicked so easily. We were both just trying to figure it out, together.”

The silence stretches for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that comes when two people have shared something meaningful, when words are no longer needed to convey the depth of the bond between them. The world outside feels far away, and in that quiet space, Seokmin feels a strange sense of peace.

A small sigh escapes him, and he stretches his arms above his head, breaking the silence. “I’m glad we have these moments, you know? It’s like… they’re our own secret little world.”

Mingyu looks at him, his smile returning. “Yeah, me too. It’s like everything else fades away when we’re together like this.”

The moment doesn’t last forever. The chatter of the café slowly grows louder, and their peaceful bubble begins to dissolve. The barista returns to clear their empty cups, giving them a knowing smile as he does. Mingyu offers a lazy wave, and Seokmin gives a playful salute.

“Guess we should get going,” Seokmin says reluctantly, already standing up. “We’ve got a schedule to ruin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mingyu chuckles, standing as well. “But at least we’ve got this.” He gestures between them, a hint of nostalgia lingering in his voice.

Seokmin grins, clapping his hand on Mingyu’s shoulder. “Of course. Nothing can change that.”

As they step out into the street, the sunlight hits them, a burst of warmth and possibility. And though the world is still busy and filled with the noise of their careers, the memories they’ve shared today feel more real than anything else.

____________________

At the moment their schedule finishes the sky has already turned dark, but the streets of the city are alive with light. The hum of distant traffic blends with the soft murmur of people chatting, laughter, and the occasional shout from a passing group. The night feels full of promise, like anything could happen. Seokmin and Mingyu walk side by side, the weight of their afternoon conversation lingering between them like a comfortable coat. There’s an unspoken agreement between them—this is the time to unwind, to be free from schedules, from demands, from the ever-present spotlight.

“So,” Mingyu starts, nudging Seokmin’s shoulder lightly, “What’s the plan for tonight?”

Seokmin smirks, a mischievous gleam lighting up his eyes. “I think you’ll like this. We’re going on a little adventure.” He points down the street, his finger aimed toward a narrow alleyway lit by a few dim streetlights. “There’s this little ramen shop I’ve been dying to try. It’s tucked away, hidden, and the best part? No one knows about it.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Ramen, huh? This sounds like a Seokmin idea. Lead the way, my friend.”

The walk to the alley is quick, but full of their usual banter. Seokmin teases Mingyu about his “fashion choices” (which really means just his oversized hoodie that makes him look like he’s preparing for a nap, not a night out) while Mingyu counters with jabs about Seokmin’s tendency to “get lost” even in places they’ve been a hundred times. It’s the kind of playful dynamic they’ve always shared, the kind that feels effortlessly comfortable, like slipping into an old pair of shoes.

As they reach the alley, Seokmin slows down, his hand brushing against Mingyu’s arm as he points toward a small door, nearly hidden between two buildings. The sign above it is faded, but if you squint, you can just make out the kanji for “ramen.” The fact that it’s barely visible seems to make it all the more exciting.

“Is this…?” Mingyu starts, his voice dropping into a whisper like they’re about to do something illicit.

Seokmin grins, his eyes bright with the thrill of secrecy. “Yep. Trust me. You’re going to love it.” He gives the door a little push, and it creaks open, revealing a small, cozy interior with wooden counters and the rich scent of broth wafting through the air.

Inside, there’s a single older woman behind the counter, her hair pulled back in a neat bun as she stirs a large pot. The soft hum of a classic Japanese melody plays in the background, adding to the quiet, intimate vibe of the place. Seokmin walks in first, his usual charm lighting up the room as he greets the woman with a bright smile.

“Good evening! We’d like two bowls of your finest ramen, please!” Seokmin’s voice rings out cheerfully, drawing the woman’s gaze. She smiles at him, nodding with a quiet, knowing expression, as if she’s been waiting for them.

Mingyu follows close behind, his eyes wide as he takes in the ambiance. The air smells rich with the scent of miso and soy sauce, the kind of comforting, hearty aroma that promises warmth and satisfaction.

The woman sets about preparing their orders with practiced hands, the sound of her movements almost rhythmic. Seokmin and Mingyu take a seat at the counter, side by side, their gazes meeting for a moment as they settle into the warmth of the small restaurant.

“This place feels… special,” Mingyu says quietly, almost as if he’s afraid to break the calm atmosphere.

Seokmin nods, his eyes softening as he leans back against the counter. “It is. It’s one of those hidden gems. The kind of place where the world feels like it stops for a moment.”

Their bowls of ramen arrive quickly, the steam rising in the air, and the rich scent fills their senses. Seokmin’s chopsticks hover above the noodles for a second, and he shoots Mingyu a teasing look. “You ready to try the best ramen you’ve ever had?”

“Bring it on,” Mingyu responds with his usual bravado, picking up his own chopsticks. But the moment the ramen hits his tongue, he can’t help the satisfied sigh that escapes him.

“Okay,” Mingyu says after swallowing, his eyes wide with surprise. “I might have underestimated this place.”

Seokmin chuckles, taking his first bite with a contented hum. “Told you. It’s the best-kept secret in the city.”

They continue to eat in a comfortable silence, the soft clink of their chopsticks against the bowls the only sound between them. For a few minutes, it’s just them and the food—no distractions, no interruptions. The night outside might still be bustling, but here, in this little corner of the world, everything feels at peace.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Mingyu says suddenly, his voice low but sincere. “It’s kind of… perfect. A little out of the way, just for us.”

Seokmin looks over at him, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I knew you’d appreciate it. It’s just one of those places that makes you feel like you’re escaping everything for a while. Like you don’t have to think about the tour or the fans or anything. Just… enjoying the moment.”

They continue eating, the quiet warmth between them wrapping around them like a blanket. When they finish, Seokmin offers a satisfied stretch, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales deeply.

“You know,” Seokmin says with a grin, “I’ve got a bit of a tradition after we eat something like this.”

“Oh?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

Seokmin looks around the small café, as if searching for something. His eyes land on the tiny Japanese-style vending machine near the door, one of those old-fashioned ones that holds a small surprise for the brave.

Mingyu follows his gaze. “Oh no. Not the fortune machine.”

Seokmin’s grin widens. “You know I have to. Come on, I’m feeling lucky tonight. Let’s see what fate has in store for us.”

Mingyu shakes his head in mock exasperation but can’t hide the amused glint in his eyes. “You and your weird traditions. Alright, I’ll go along with it. But I’m not holding my breath.”

Seokmin strides over to the vending machine, inserting a coin with a dramatic flourish. “This is it, Mingyu. Tonight’s the night.”

With a soft clink, the little machine spits out two small fortune slips. Seokmin eagerly grabs them, unfurling his first. He reads it aloud with exaggerated seriousness: “The best is yet to come.”

Mingyu snorts, clearly unimpressed. “That’s so vague.”

“Ah, but it’s positive!” Seokmin insists, a wide grin stretching across his face as he hands Mingyu his slip.

Mingyu takes it, reading it with a raised eyebrow. “You will find a hidden treasure soon.”

Seokmin bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach as Mingyu glares at him good-naturedly. “Okay, I’ll admit it. That one’s a little too on the nose for a ramen adventure.”

Mingyu looks at him with a mock-serious expression. “I’m starting to think you rigged the machine.”

Seokmin chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I promise, it’s all fate. We were meant to have the best ramen and the best fortune tonight.”

They both laugh, and for a moment, everything feels light. As they leave the café, the night stretches ahead of them, full of possibilities. It’s these little surprises, these small moments of joy, that remind them—sometimes, it’s the simplest things that matter the most.

____________________

The night continues to unfold like a dream, and Seokmin and Mingyu stroll back through the streets, their hearts light and their laughter echoing into the cool night air. The initial rush of their ramen adventure lingers in the background, but there’s something about being out in the world together—just the two of them—that makes everything feel effortless and comforting.

"Okay," Mingyu says, breaking the comfortable silence. "What’s next? We can’t end the night just like this. We still have to figure out what that fortune meant."

Seokmin grins, looking at him like he’s a partner in crime. "Oh, we’re not done yet. I’ve got just the thing to keep the vibe going." He winks and pulls his phone out of his pocket, tapping away at it for a moment before holding it up with a flourish.

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. "What are you up to now?"

"Let’s just say…" Seokmin trails off dramatically, glancing at the phone with a teasing smile, "I’ve planned our very own mini adventure." He taps the screen again, and the map app pops up, showing them a route that leads to a small part of the city neither of them has visited before.

Mingyu squints at the screen. "Wait, is that—"

"Yup," Seokmin interrupts. "It’s the park at the edge of the city. You know, the one that’s open late and kind of spooky at night."

Mingyu’s eyes widen with the slightest hint of excitement. "Spooky, huh? You’re really out here trying to make this an adventure, aren’t you?"

Seokmin’s grin widens, full of that signature playfulness that has always made Mingyu roll his eyes. "What can I say? Life’s too short for boring nights."

And just like that, they turn off the main street, walking deeper into the quieter part of the city where streetlights flicker above their heads, casting long shadows on the pavement. The park isn’t far, and as they approach it, Mingyu can’t help but feel a sense of mystery creeping up his spine.

The gates to the park are old and rusted, creaking slightly as Seokmin pushes them open. The night is still young, but the trees around them rustle with an eerie sound, the wind playing tricks on their minds. Seokmin leads the way, not hesitating for a second.

"Don’t worry," Seokmin teases over his shoulder, "I’ve got it all figured out."

Mingyu, despite himself, feels the thrill of anticipation bubbling in his chest. There’s something about this place—something that seems to invite mischief and the unexpected.

"So, what’s the deal with this park?" Mingyu asks, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrays the slight shiver of excitement. "You said it’s spooky. Is there, like, a haunted mansion here? Or a secret underground lair?"

Seokmin laughs, the sound bouncing off the empty pathways. "Nothing that dramatic. It’s just… one of those places that feels more magical at night. Trust me, it’s perfect for wandering."

They walk deeper into the park, the dim light of the surrounding city fading with each step, swallowed by the towering trees and thick bushes. The path twists and turns, leading them to a small lake that sparkles under the moonlight. The reflection of the stars creates an almost surreal glow on the water’s surface.

"This is…" Mingyu starts, his voice full of awe. "This is kind of beautiful, actually."

Seokmin stops in front of the lake, looking over his shoulder at Mingyu with a knowing smile. "I told you. Sometimes, the best surprises are the ones that happen when you least expect them."

Mingyu grins back at him. "I’ll admit, you’re good at picking places. You’ve got that ‘secret location’ radar or something."

Seokmin shrugs nonchalantly, but his grin betrays the pride he’s feeling. "What can I say? I’m a man of mystery."

As they stand by the lake, the cool breeze whispers through the trees, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of their breathing and the soft lapping of the water. The rest of the world feels so far away, and it’s just the two of them, existing in this peaceful, almost magical moment.

Mingyu shivers slightly, wrapping his arms around himself. "So, are we just going to stand here and admire the stars all night? Because I’m not saying no to it, but I was kind of hoping for a little more action."

Seokmin laughs, stepping back from the lake. "You want action, huh? Alright, how about this?" He pulls his phone out again and taps a few buttons.

Mingyu watches in confusion as Seokmin holds the phone out. "Are we taking a selfie or something? ‘Cause I gotta warn you, I don’t do those cheesy couple pics."

Seokmin chuckles, tapping the screen a few more times. "Nope, even better." He points the phone toward the sky and presses the button, and a bright flash lights up the park.

"Whoa," Mingyu exclaims as the phone’s screen reveals a glow-in-the-dark star map projected across the sky. Seokmin had pulled up one of those apps that lets you see constellations and planets even in a city like this, where the stars would normally be hard to spot.

"See?" Seokmin says with a grin. "Now, we can literally look at the stars and see exactly where everything is. You said you wanted action; here you go, constellations with a little high-tech twist."

Mingyu laughs, genuinely impressed. "Okay, okay, that’s actually pretty cool. You’re like a walking adventure generator."

Seokmin shrugs, a proud smile tugging at his lips. "It’s a gift. I’m here for all the surprises."

The two of them sit on the edge of the small stone wall around the lake, gazing up at the sky as Seokmin walks Mingyu through the constellations, pointing out the major ones and explaining what they mean. Mingyu listens, laughing at Seokmin’s goofy impersonations of ancient Greek myths, but it’s clear that the night has taken on a deeper meaning than either of them expected.

It’s not just about the little surprises anymore. It’s about moments like this—the ones that aren’t planned, the ones that unfold naturally, where everything feels in sync. Seokmin’s goofy charm balances Mingyu’s easygoing nature, and together, they create something that feels undeniably special.

A few minutes pass, and then Mingyu turns to Seokmin, his expression thoughtful.

"You know," Mingyu says quietly, "I didn’t expect any of this. But I’m glad I came. This whole night… I think it’s what I needed."

Seokmin looks at him, his smile softening into something more sincere. "Same here, Gyu. Sometimes, it’s the little surprises, the random moments, that turn out to be the best ones."

Mingyu looks down at his hands for a moment, his heart swelling with something unspoken. "I guess, if there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that… maybe the best treasures are the ones you find when you’re just with the people who get you."

Seokmin looks at him, his eyes warm, and there’s a quiet understanding between them. No words are needed. The night—this night—is enough.

They sit in silence for a while, the weight of the world momentarily gone. In the company of a good friend, under the stars, everything is right.

____________________

The night is winding down, but the glow of the adventure lingers as Seokmin and Mingyu head back to their apartment. The streets are quieter now, the early morning creeping in, with only a few stray pedestrians still wandering around. The chill of the night air nips at their skin, but their laughter warms the space between them as they walk side by side.

"You know," Seokmin says with a playful smirk, "I kind of hate to say it, but I think I’m actually going to miss the random park adventures."

Mingyu snorts. "Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find another random place to make an impromptu memory at some point. I’m pretty sure there’s something out there that we can check out."

Seokmin shoots him a look, his eyes wide. "I’m all for fun, but I’m not getting locked up for something crazy just to add ‘adventure’ to our list."

"Relax." Mingyu teases, nudging him with his elbow. "I wouldn’t get you into trouble. I’ll keep it safe. We’ll just stick to less... criminal forms of excitement, alright?"

Seokmin gives him a side-eye. "That’s what you say now, but I’ll be watching you."

Mingyu bursts out laughing, the sound loud and carefree. "Okay, okay. But seriously, this was a great night. A little weird, a little spontaneous, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything."

Seokmin smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he adjusts his jacket against the slight chill. "Same. There’s something about being out here with you—just… living in the moment."

As they turn the corner toward their building, the warmth of their apartment beckons them, and they both sigh in relief as they finally enter the familiar lobby. The smell of the place, the quiet hum of the elevator, the soft sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor—all of it is comforting. But there’s something even more comforting about the shared space between them.

They reach their floor and enter their apartment, the lights dimmed and the quiet settling around them like a soft blanket. The remnants of their earlier chaos—the empty ramen bowls, the stray jackets, the shoes tossed by the door—are still scattered around.

Seokmin steps inside first, tossing his jacket onto the couch without much thought. "Alright, I’m going to take a shower. I feel like I’ve been running around for hours, and I need to relax."

Mingyu stretches his arms above his head, his body aching from the walk. "Good call. I think I’m going to crash on the couch for a bit while you do that. Gotta make sure I’m still in one piece after all that ramen." He flops onto the couch dramatically, making a show of how exhausted he is.

Seokmin chuckles, shaking his head as he heads to the bathroom. "Sure, sure. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. I-ate-too-much."

A few moments later, the soft sound of water running fills the apartment, and Mingyu closes his eyes, letting the tranquility of the moment settle in.

It’s strange, he thinks, how in the middle of all their noise and movement, Seokmin’s presence—his friendship, his easy laughter—has always been this constant source of comfort. Sure, their nights were chaotic, unpredictable, but there’s something calming about knowing that, no matter what, Seokmin would always be there.

The shower stops, and Seokmin emerges, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, a towel slung over his shoulders. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he glances over at Mingyu.

"So, I’m feeling… like we should have a movie marathon," Seokmin declares, the energy of the night still evident in his voice.

Mingyu groans playfully. "A movie marathon? Seriously? After everything we did tonight? What’s next, a sleepover?"

Seokmin shrugs nonchalantly, plopping onto the floor in front of the TV. "I mean, it’s only right. After that ramen, we need a little bit of a ‘chill’ factor. And you can’t say no to comfort movies, right?"

Mingyu rolls his eyes but can’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. "Okay, fine. But only if we get to order more snacks. I’m starving again. Who eats that much food and doesn’t end up hungry five minutes later?"

Seokmin laughs and grabs his phone. "Great minds think alike. I was already planning on ordering pizza and more snacks. You know, for the true movie marathon experience."

As the evening drifts into the early hours of the morning, the two of them settle into their usual routine—watching silly rom-coms, ordering way too much food, and talking about nothing in particular. It’s in these moments, when the world is quiet and there’s no pressure, that Mingyu finds the most comfort. He’s never had to pretend with Seokmin, never had to be anything other than himself. And that, in itself, feels like a treasure.

Their laughter is easy and natural, slipping from their lips like they’ve been doing this forever.

"Okay, okay," Seokmin says between giggles, wiping a tear from his eye. "But seriously, who thought it was a good idea to make that movie where the guy keeps falling in love with every girl he meets?"

Mingyu shrugs dramatically. "I think we both know the answer to that. It’s called ‘Falling Fast.’"

They both burst out laughing again, the sound of it filling the space between them, warm and comforting, like sunshine breaking through the clouds.

As the night winds down, Seokmin stretches out on the couch, leaning his head against Mingyu’s shoulder.

"Thanks for tonight," Seokmin says quietly, his voice softer than before. "I didn’t realize how much I needed something like this. It’s been a while since I’ve just been… happy without all the crazy."

Mingyu tilts his head, looking down at Seokmin with a soft smile. "Anytime, Seokmin. Seriously. I’ve got your back."

And in that moment, Mingyu knows, without a doubt, that no matter where life takes them, the quiet comfort of nights like this—laughter, food, friendship—will always be the foundation of something deeper. Something unshakable.

"Let’s never forget this," Mingyu says, the weight of the words grounding him in the simplicity of it all.

Seokmin nods, his eyes fluttering closed as he settles in. "We won’t. This… this is us."

And as the apartment falls into a peaceful silence, the laughter of the night still echoes in the corners, and everything feels just right.

Chapter Text

Seokmin liked the quiet parts of the day—the in-between hours when the city forgot to hum. Early nightfall, before the streetlamps buzzed awake, and long before the dorm lit up with voices, arguments over takeout, and Soonyoung dragging Chan into another dance relay. This was his sanctuary: the just-after-dinner walks where his mask wasn’t on because there was no one around to expect him to wear it.

The park near the dorm wasn’t much. A winding path, a few benches, the smell of earth after rain. But to Seokmin, it was the kind of quiet that hummed in the same key as his soul. Sometimes he sang under his breath as he walked—just nonsense melodies, lullabies that didn’t have to impress anyone.

That’s where he met him.

The man on the bench.

"Nice voice," the stranger said, startling him.

Seokmin paused mid-step. “Ah—sorry. Was I too loud?”

The man shook his head, smiling like someone who didn’t mind being alone until suddenly, he didn’t want to be anymore. “Not at all. It was nice. What song was that?”

Seokmin scratched the back of his neck, a little bashful. “Nothing, really. Just something I made up.”

“That so?” the man said, adjusting his hoodie. “Sounds like something worth remembering.”

Seokmin laughed, soft and awkward. “You’re being nice.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe. But I mean it.”

And like that, it began.

____________________

His name was Hyunwoo, and he said he worked remotely in IT, freelanced on the side. Liked quiet parks and warm nights. Claimed to have no idea who Seokmin was at first, and when he found out later, brushed it off like it didn’t matter.

“I liked you before I knew you were you,” Hyunwoo had said. “Still do.”

Seokmin, soft-hearted and hopeful, took that like a gift.

They started meeting twice a week. Then three. The others thought he was just stretching his legs, getting air. They smiled, teased him about his mysterious evening strolls. Jeonghan winked. Mingyu made kissy faces. Seokmin only laughed, cheeks puffed up like always, because there was nothing bad about any of this.

Hyunwoo didn’t ask him for anything. Didn’t treat him like an idol. He talked about books, movies, sunsets. He asked Seokmin questions, deep ones, like he cared about the answers.

“Do you ever feel lonely even when you’re surrounded by people?”

Seokmin blinked. “Sometimes. But… not because they don’t care. Just because I’m bad at asking for help.”

Hyunwoo nodded like he understood. “That’s not a flaw, you know.”

Seokmin’s heart warmed like tea on a rainy day.

____________________

He brought Hyunwoo coffee one day. Left early before practice just to get the exact kind he liked—iced americano with two pumps of vanilla, “because bitterness is fine, but only if it’s sweetened at the edges.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hyunwoo said, taking the cup.

“I wanted to.”

Seokmin’s world was full of people he loved. And when he loved, he did it loudly. Brought people snacks. Wrote them notes. Showed up. Remembered little things. It never occurred to him to hold back.

So when Hyunwoo thanked him and gave him that same soft smile, Seokmin only felt joy.

He didn’t notice how Hyunwoo never offered the same back.

Didn’t clock how every conversation shifted back to Seokmin’s insecurities.

Didn’t realize he’d started talking less to the members. That he laughed a little less loud.

It was slow. Gentle.

A frog in boiling water.

____________________

“Hyung?” Chan’s voice was cautious one evening as Seokmin slipped his shoes on. “You heading out again?”

Seokmin nodded. “Just a walk. I won’t be long.”

Chan watched him. “You’ve been walking a lot lately.”

“Yeah,” Seokmin said, trying to keep it light. “The fresh air’s good for my voice, you know?”

Chan didn’t argue. Just hummed. “Okay. Be safe, yeah?”

He was the first to notice. But not the last.

____________________

Hyunwoo said he liked how real Seokmin was. Said he was refreshing, honest, open.

“You’re not like other idols. You’re… softer. Like, you actually feel things.”

Seokmin smiled, flattered. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s rare,” Hyunwoo replied. “People like you… you make the world lighter. Even when you don’t know it.”

It was the kind of praise Seokmin had always wanted to believe about himself but was too humble to say out loud.

So he believed it more when it came from Hyunwoo.

____________________

Two months later, the first storm rolled in.

They’d been sitting on the same park bench when Hyunwoo said, casually, “I don’t know how you keep giving so much to people. Isn’t it exhausting?”

Seokmin tilted his head. “It’s not exhausting if it’s who I am.”

Hyunwoo didn’t answer right away. Then: “I just think… you let people take too much from you. Doesn’t it bother you?”

The words echoed too close to thoughts Seokmin only had late at night, when no one was watching. He tried to laugh them off.

“Maybe. But I’d rather be taken advantage of than shut people out.”

Hyunwoo blinked, then smiled. “That’s such a you answer.”

But something about the smile didn’t sit right. It was too measured. Too rehearsed.

Seokmin didn’t say anything. Not then.

____________________

At the dorm, Seungkwan bumped into him in the kitchen. “You okay?”

Seokmin looked up from his tea. “Yeah, of course.”

“You’ve been a little…” Seungkwan searched for the word. “Tired. Quieter.”

Seokmin forced a smile. “Maybe I just need more sleep.”

Seungkwan didn’t believe him. But he didn’t push.

The members were starting to feel the shift. Not big enough to raise alarms. Just… different. Seokmin didn’t hum as much when he cooked. Didn’t yell as loudly during Mario Kart.

Jihoon noticed it in rehearsals.

Minghao noticed it when Seokmin stopped initiating hugs.

Joshua noticed it when Seokmin laughed but his eyes didn’t crinkle.

Something was slipping. But no one knew what.

Yet.

____________________

Seokmin kept meeting Hyunwoo.

He kept bringing coffee. He kept listening to Hyunwoo talk about people who disappointed him, how he hated phoniness, how he didn’t believe in love but maybe—maybe—if it was with someone like Seokmin…

He said it with a softness that Seokmin mistook for care.

He said it in ways that made Seokmin feel needed.

Hyunwoo never asked for money. Not directly. Just offhand comments.

“Man, I’ve been stretched thin this week. Guess freelance isn’t always stable.”

“Ugh, that repair’s gonna cost more than my rent.”

“Wish I could take a break and not worry for once.”

So Seokmin helped. Quietly. Gently. Offered small things. Anonymously bought him a new phone case. Topped off a train card. Left behind snacks and little notes.

Hyunwoo always found them. Always said thank you.

But never said stop.

And still, Seokmin smiled.

Because he thought: This is what friends do. This is what kindness is.

Nothing bad could ever happen here.

Not to someone like him.

Not in a story like this.

Right?

____________________

It started with little shifts in tone.

Hyunwoo’s voice, once low and gentle, began carrying an edge—barely there, like a fray in silk. Seokmin would say something clumsy, or forget a date, or accidentally run five minutes late because rehearsal ran long, and suddenly there’d be a pause.

Not angry. Not quite.

Just disappointed.

“Sorry,” Seokmin would say, always quick with it, always earnest. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Hyunwoo would cut in, not unkind, just tired. “You’ve got a million people needing you all the time. It’s easy to forget about me.”

And that—that—hit Seokmin in a place no one else had ever touched.

Because wasn’t that the fear? That he wasn’t enough for the people he cared about? That his love, bright as it was, still left someone in the dark?

So he compensated.

Canceled a few post-practice dinners. Left rehearsals early, once or twice, with the excuse of a sore throat. Declined a game night with Mingyu and Soonyoung. Stopped replying to the group chat in real time.

Every time Hyunwoo looked just a bit sad, a bit distant, Seokmin folded over himself like paper, trying to make his shape more pleasing.

And Hyunwoo smiled again. Gently. Like a reward.

“See? You do care.”

____________________

The boys noticed.

“Did Seokmin-ah ghost us?” Vernon joked one evening, phone in hand.

“He left me on read,” Jeonghan said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Me. Yoon Jeonghan. That’s grounds for war.”

“I think he’s just tired,” Jihoon murmured. “We’ve all been running on fumes lately.”

Chan bit his lip. “It’s not just tired. He’s not… happy. He laughs, but he doesn’t—”

“Crinkle,” Seungkwan finished for him. “Yeah. I saw it too.”

Seungcheol furrowed his brow. “Let’s not freak out yet. But we should keep an eye on him.”

They all nodded.

Even when the house was loud, they always heard when one of them went quiet.

____________________

One night, Seokmin sat beside Hyunwoo on the bench, a hot drink nestled between his palms. He looked exhausted—physically, emotionally. But he smiled anyway.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said. “I needed this.”

Hyunwoo didn’t smile back. He stared ahead, fingers tapping against the lid of his drink.

“You’re quieter lately,” he said.

“Ah…” Seokmin gave a sheepish grin. “Just tired, I guess. Practice is intense right now.”

“Is that why you forgot to call last night?”

Seokmin blinked. “Oh—yeah, I’m really sorry. I meant to, I just—”

“You say sorry a lot.”

There was no warmth in his tone.

Seokmin’s throat bobbed. “I don’t mean to disappoint you.”

Hyunwoo finally turned to him. “I’m not trying to be a burden, Seokmin. But it’s hard not to feel like I’m always coming second. Third. Behind your group. Your fans. Your career.”

The words sank in like stones.

Seokmin had spent years mastering the art of self-blame. He wore guilt like a second skin.

“You’re not a burden,” he said quickly. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

And he meant it. God, he meant it with every inch of his aching heart.

He didn’t realize then—maybe couldn’t—that the terms of the relationship had changed. That Hyunwoo no longer smiled at his joy but measured it like a ledger.

Seokmin didn’t see the red flags.

He only saw the man who once said, “You make the world lighter.”

____________________

The dam cracked when Jeonghan finally cornered him one afternoon.

“Hey,” he said, tone deceptively light. “Got a sec?”

Seokmin looked up from his phone, mid-text. “Huh? Oh—yeah.”

Jeonghan didn’t waste time. “Who have you been texting lately?”

Seokmin blinked. “What?”

“Every time I look at you, you’re on your phone. You’ve bailed on two hangouts and you didn’t come to Minghao’s art event. That’s not like you.”

“I’ve just been… busy,” Seokmin mumbled.

“Not that busy. Not too busy for us.”

There was no judgment in Jeonghan’s voice. Only quiet worry, sharp as a scalpel.

Seokmin sighed. “I’ve just been spending time with a friend. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Jeonghan said slowly. “A friend you’re always with. Who makes you cancel on people. Who you’re bending around like origami.”

Seokmin stiffened. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Jeonghan stepped closer. “Tell me something—when’s the last time this friend did something for you? Not something that made you feel flattered. I mean something selfless.”

Silence.

That silence was an answer.

Jeonghan’s tone gentled. “Seokmin-ah… we love you. And you love hard. You always have. But some people don’t deserve that kind of love.”

“I’m fine,” Seokmin said, too quickly. “It’s just… complicated.”

Jeonghan didn’t push further. Just pulled him into a hug.

“You’re allowed to need people who don’t drain you,” he whispered.

And that, more than anything, cracked something open.

____________________

That night, Hyunwoo snapped.

“You’ve been distant,” he said, barely hiding his annoyance. “Is it because of them? Are they feeding you crap about me?”

“No one’s said anything bad,” Seokmin said carefully. “But… I think I need some space.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes narrowed. “Space. After everything I’ve shared with you? After everything you gave me?”

“I gave you those things because I cared,” Seokmin said, voice small. “But I don’t… I don’t think you care the same way.”

And just like that—like flipping a switch—Hyunwoo’s mask fell.

The warmth dropped from his face. The charm peeled away.

“You’re unbelievable,” he spat. “You think they care more than I do? You think they understand you?”

Seokmin stepped back, shaken. “I never said that.”

“No, but you meant it.” Hyunwoo’s mouth twisted. “You’re not special, Seokmin. You’re just easy to manipulate.”

The words hit like fists.

But for the first time, Seokmin didn’t fold.

He stared at Hyunwoo, chest rising and falling, and said—soft but clear—

“Then I guess we’re done.”

He turned and walked away.

Every step felt like walking barefoot across broken glass.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Not even once.

____________________

He got back to the dorm and went straight to his room. Closed the door. Sat on the floor.

And finally, finally—

He cried.

Not the gentle kind. Not the quiet, movie-scene kind.

Ugly, body-wracking sobs.

Muffled into his hoodie sleeve so no one would hear.

Except they did.

Because five minutes later, there was a knock.

Then another.

Then twelve.

All of them.

“Hyung?” Chan whispered.

“Open the door,” said Mingyu, voice tight.

“You don’t have to talk,” Joshua added gently. “Just let us in.”

So he did.

And when the door opened, twelve members spilled in like a storm breaking.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just held him.

And that was the moment—right then—when everything changed.

Because Seokmin finally understood:

He had given his heart to someone who didn’t deserve it.

But around him were twelve souls who would guard it like their own.

Even if it broke them to do it.

Even if they had to go to war.

Because this wasn’t just betrayal.

This was someone hurting their Seokmin.

And now?

There would be consequences.

____________________

It happened quietly at first.

Seokmin wasn’t the kind of person who shattered all at once.

He frayed.

He faded.

Like something left too long in the sun.

There were no fireworks, no grand declarations of grief.

Just a boy with a voice like gold and a heart like honey, sitting in the quiet, trying to figure out when love turned into currency.

____________________

“We should’ve noticed,” Jihoon muttered, teeth clenched, hands tight around a pencil that hadn’t touched paper in twenty minutes. “We should’ve known.”

They were in the studio.

The room was dim, only the soft glow of the monitors keeping the dark at bay.

Seungcheol leaned against the wall, arms folded, unreadable.

“He didn’t want us to notice,” he said finally. “Or maybe he didn’t want it to be real.”

Jihoon slammed the pencil down. “That’s not an excuse.”

No.

It wasn’t.

Because Seokmin was light incarnate.

But somewhere along the way, that light had been bent.

Twisted.

Used.

By someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

____________________

It wasn’t just the tears that haunted them.

It was how quiet Seokmin had gotten.

Not silent.

Just… diminished.

Like someone had stolen the color out of him and replaced it with something brittle.

He still smiled—of course he smiled, he was Seokmin.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Didn’t crinkle at the corners.

And when someone asked him if he was okay, he said,

“I’m fine,”

the way people say it when they know they’re not,

but they’re trying to be.

____________________

The tipping point came one late afternoon when Seungkwan walked into the practice room and found Seokmin sitting on the floor, music playing through his phone.

He wasn’t dancing.

He wasn’t singing.

He was just sitting, back against the mirror, watching a dust mote spin in the light.

“Hyung?”

Seokmin didn’t move.

“Hey,” Seungkwan said softly, kneeling beside him. “Talk to me.”

Seokmin’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

The question didn’t come with bitterness.

It wasn’t rhetorical.

It was soft and raw and earnest.

Like it had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks.

Seungkwan felt something crack in his chest.

“No. Never.”

“I believed him,” Seokmin said. “Even when it started hurting. I thought… if I just loved him enough, it would get better.”

“That’s not stupid, hyung. That’s—”

“Naïve.”

A broken smile.

“Too trusting.”

Seungkwan shook his head.

“No. It’s not a flaw to be kind. You were never the problem.”

Seokmin looked at him then.

Eyes rimmed red, lashes damp.

“I feel like a fool.”

And for the first time, Seungkwan didn’t say no you’re not.

Didn’t say you’re stronger than this.

He just nodded.

“Then be a fool who survives it. A fool who heals.”

He took Seokmin’s hand.

Held it like a lifeline.

“You don’t have to be okay right now. But you have to let us stand beside you while you break.”

Seokmin said nothing.

But he didn’t let go.

____________________

Later that week, Soonyoung punched a wall.

Actually punched it.

Split skin, bruised knuckles, the whole cliché.

Because someone had found Hyunwoo’s Instagram story.

He was laughing in a café.

Arms draped around someone new.

Caption: “Trading up.”

Trading up.

As if Seokmin had been a stepping stone.

A placeholder.

A thing.

“I’m going to kill him,” Soonyoung said calmly, blood trickling down his hand.

“Not metaphorically. Like, actual violence.”

Jun nodded solemnly. “We’ll help bury the body.”

“Can we make it look like an accident?” Minghao asked.

“Forensics can’t trace spite.”

Joshua sighed. “I’m not saying murder is the solution, but…”

Even Jeonghan, usually the voice of teasing detachment, looked ready to burn the city down.

“He hurt our Seokminie,” he said. “He doesn’t get forgiveness.”

There were no jokes.

No gentle ribbing.

No ‘he’ll get what’s coming.’

Only cold fury.

And unwavering loyalty.

____________________

That night, Mingyu found Seokmin on the balcony.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned beside him, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

The city glowed below.

Alive. Loud. Unapologetic.

“Do you want to hear what I really think?” Mingyu asked eventually.

Seokmin shrugged. “Sure.”

“I think you’re the best person I know.”

Seokmin snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true,” Mingyu said, voice steady. “You see the world like it’s worth loving. Even when it isn’t. You give people the benefit of the doubt even when they don’t deserve it.”

Seokmin said nothing.

“I’m not going to tell you he wasn’t a piece of shit, because he was,” Mingyu continued. “But you? You weren’t stupid. You weren’t weak. You were brave.”

Seokmin turned to him, blinking. “Brave?”

“You loved and trusted someone even when it hurt. That takes guts.”

Seokmin looked away. “Doesn’t feel brave. Just feels broken.”

“Then be broken. We’ll hold the pieces.”

____________________

Weeks passed.

Some days were better than others.

Some days, Seokmin laughed.

Genuine, bright, nose-scrunching laughter.

Other days, he moved through the dorm like a ghost.

But he moved.

He got up.

He breathed.

And that was something.

____________________

One morning, he walked into the kitchen to find the others sitting in a circle.

“What’s this?” he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“A love intervention,” Jeonghan said brightly. “Sit.”

There was tea.

There were cookies.

There was a handmade sign that said ‘Seokmin’s Heart is Sacred. Violators Will Be Destroyed.’

They went around the circle, one by one, telling him the things he needed to hear.

The things they should’ve said sooner.

“I love how you laugh at your own jokes,” said Chan.

“You always remember people’s birthdays,” said Vernon.

“You talk to fans like they’re old friends,” said Jihoon.

“You carry snacks for everyone else,” said Minghao.

“You still believe the best in people,” said Seungcheol.

“You made me believe I was more than my voice,” said Joshua.

Twelve voices.

Twelve truths.

Twelve lifelines thrown at once.

Seokmin cried again.

But this time, it wasn’t pain.

It was release.

And when the tears stopped, he looked at them all, heart in his throat, voice steady for the first time in weeks—

“I think I want to be happy again.”

And they smiled.

Because that was the beginning.

Not of forgetting.

Not of pretending it hadn’t hurt.

But of something better.

Something real.

Something whole.

____________________

But beginnings are never clean.

You don’t just decide to be happy and then wake up with all the darkness gone.

Healing isn’t linear, and Seokmin…

Seokmin still bled at the edges.

It showed in the way he hesitated before laughing.

In the way he double-checked his messages like he expected something cruel.

In the way his phone vibrated and his whole body tensed like a struck chord.

The others saw it.

God, they saw it.

And they swore—individually, collectively, silently, loudly—that they would never let that kind of hurt touch him again.

____________________

One night, Wonwoo came home late from the studio and found Seokmin asleep on the couch.

He’d clearly tried to stay up—lights on, book in hand, a mug of tea gone cold on the table.

But exhaustion had taken him mid-page, his head tilted awkwardly against the cushions.

Wonwoo crouched beside him and gently took the book from his fingers.

It was a poetry collection.

Not one of the trendy ones with page-a-day affirmations, but something older.

Dog-eared. Worn.

The kind of thing someone reads when they’re searching for something they can’t name.

His eyes flicked across the stanza Seokmin had left open:

“I have been hurt more by love than by hate,

but still I return,

arms wide,

hoping this time,

it will be different.”

Wonwoo swallowed hard.

He knew Seokmin wasn’t looking for sympathy.

But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

He pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him, careful not to wake him.

“You still return,” he whispered, brushing a hand through Seokmin’s hair.

“That’s the part that kills me.”

____________________

The group started keeping a closer watch.

Nothing suffocating, nothing overt.

Just… presence.

Little things.

Jeonghan made sure Seokmin always had someone to eat with, even if it meant dragging him out of bed for midnight ramen.

Dino left dumb TikToks queued up on Seokmin’s phone every morning.

Jihoon started humming new melodies loud enough for Seokmin to hear from the next room—bait, obviously, to get him to wander in and start harmonizing like old times.

Seungcheol, quietly but firmly, took over every single external communication request that had anything to do with Hyunwoo.

Not that the guy had reached out—thankfully, he knew better.

But if he ever tried again, Seungcheol was ready.

His version of mercy was a blocked number and an untraceable blacklist.

“I don’t want him anywhere near our circle,” he told the manager one day.

“I don’t care if the guy walks into a broadcast building. If Seokmin’s in the vicinity, get him out. I won’t have him blindsided again.”

____________________

Meanwhile, Hyunwoo's name was starting to stink in Seoul’s smaller circles.

Subtle stuff.

Cold shoulders at bars.

A cancelled invite here, a lost client there.

Word of mouth spreads fast in this city—especially when twelve fiercely loyal men have friends in every corner of the industry.

Minghao said it best:

“We don’t need to ruin him. He’s already rotting.”

But oh, if he ever stepped out of line again…

The rotting would become scorching.

____________________

And then came the moment Seokmin started singing again.

Not just humming, not just fooling around in the dorm or echoing someone else's notes.

Actually singing.

He was in the studio with Jihoon and Soonyoung, helping workshop a melody, when he tilted his head and said,

“Wait, what if it goes like this?”

And then it just happened.

His voice—warm, rich, alive.

Soonyoung stopped mid-bite of a protein bar.

Jihoon froze halfway through clicking a synth filter.

The room was still, like time itself held its breath.

And Seokmin, for a second, looked startled by the silence.

“Was that bad?”

Soonyoung shook his head slowly.

“No, Seok. It was the opposite.”

Jihoon’s eyes were glassy.

He turned to the mixing board and muttered something about levels and recording input but his hands trembled as they reached for the controls.

Later that day, Jihoon played the clip back in the dorm, on speaker, in the kitchen.

He didn’t announce it.

Didn’t need to.

The moment Seokmin’s voice spilled out, rich and clear and so painfully him, everyone froze.

No one said a word.

No one needed to.

There it was.

Proof.

He was coming back.

Maybe not all at once.

Maybe not forever.

But piece by piece, note by note, he was returning to himself.

____________________

That night, Seokmin stood in front of the mirror in his room and stared at his own reflection.

He’d been so many things this year.

Loved.

Deceived.

Discarded.

But somehow, through it all, he was still standing.

Still singing.

Still soft.

Still him.

His fingers curled into fists, not with anger—

—but with resolve.

He wasn’t going to shrink for anyone ever again.

Not even the ghosts of the people he used to love.

The door creaked open behind him.

Jeonghan peeked in, toothbrush in hand, eyebrows raised.

“You good?”

Seokmin turned, a small but genuine smile pulling at his lips.

“I think so.”

Jeonghan nodded once.

Then, grinning:

“Good. Now come help me figure out where Soonyoung hid my snacks. I know it was him this time.”

Seokmin laughed.

And this time, it reached all the way to his eyes.

____________________

Seokmin was just beginning to find his footing again. The cruel words Hyunwoo had thrown at him had left bruises on his spirit, but slowly—day by day—he’d started to heal. His smiles came easier, his laughter returned in small bursts, and there was hope flickering quietly beneath the surface.

Then, like a brutal storm, everything shifted once more.

It started with a message—an anonymous tip that landed in Seokmin’s inbox late one night. Hesitant, he opened it. The screen filled with chilling proof: screenshots of conversations between Hyunwoo and his friends, laughing about a bet they made. A bet on how quickly Hyunwoo could befriend Seokmin—and how easily he could use that kindness against him.

One message read:

“Betting on how fast I can get Seokmin, that member of SEVENTEEN to trust me. Kid’s too soft, perfect target.”

Another:

“He won’t see it coming. Easy to break, easy to use. Personality makes it a guaranteed win.”

The betrayal dug deeper than before. This wasn’t just cruelty—it was calculated, cold, and completely merciless. Just as Seokmin had begun to breathe again, this discovery dragged him back into darkness, the pain sharper, more personal.

His body froze, tears falling quietly as the weight of the truth crushed him. It wasn’t only Hyunwoo’s words or actions—it was the realization that his genuine heart had been a game to someone else.

____________________

When the members found him like that—huddled, shaking, tears streaming down his face—they saw more than just Seokmin’s pain. They saw the evidence on his phone and the cruel truth laid bare.

Anger ignited instantly. It wasn’t a slow burn—it was a wildfire.

Mingyu’s jaw clenched as he read the messages aloud, voice tight with disbelief.

“How could someone be this heartless?” he spat.

Jun’s fists curled into tight balls, eyes darkening.

“That’s not just betrayal. That’s a damn crime against trust.”

Joshua’s usually calm demeanor cracked for a moment, a rare flare of fury flashing in his eyes.

“We don’t let people do this to our family.”

Seungcheol ’s reaction was immediate and fierce—his protective rage boiling over.

“This isn’t something you just ‘move on’ from,” he said quietly, voice low but full of menace.

“No one messes with Seokmin like this. Not on my watch.”

The group rallied around Seokmin with unyielding strength, their fury fierce and raw. The bet, the calculated manipulation—it lit a fire in all of them, a refusal to let this betrayal stand unchallenged.

____________________

From that moment, their support wasn’t just gentle encouragement. It was war-ready defense.

Mingyu flooded Seokmin’s phone with ridiculous memes and jokes to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Jun dragged him to late-night dance sessions—no pressure, no cameras, just movement and laughter that chipped away at the heaviness.

Joshua’s books arrived wrapped in care, each note a lifeline.

“You’re not soft because you’re breakable. You’re soft because you’re strong enough to feel everything.”

Seungkwan, embodying pure protective fury, was silent for an hour after seeing the messages, then left with bruised knuckles and a promise in his eyes.

Hyunwoo’s name began to rot even more than before in every whispered corner of their world, a mark of disgrace and scorn that spread like wildfire.

____________________

The confrontation came one evening near the company building.

Hyunwoo showed up, probably to apologize, or to twist the knife once more, or to pretend he was the victim.

He didn’t get far.

Jeonghan, Joshua, Minghao, Jun, and Seungcheol surrounded him.

Behind them, the rest of the group flanked Seokmin like a shield of fire and steel.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to disappear,” Jeonghan said softly, his smile razor-sharp.

Joshua didn’t say a word, but the heat radiating from him was enough to scorch stone.

Seungcheol stepped forward.

“You speak his name again,” he warned, “and you won’t like the version of me you meet next.”

Hyunwoo tried to say something—regret, misunderstanding, victimhood—but Soonyoung pushed past everyone.

No shouting. No punches.

Just a steady, unwavering stare.

“You don’t get to look at him again,” Soonyoung said calmly, final, like a blade sliding into its sheath.

“You’re done.”

Hyunwoo slunk away, coward without a backward glance.

Seokmin stood tall, back straight, hands loose at his sides.

No tears. No smiles.

Just quiet, unbreakable strength.

A man.

A storm.

A softness the world tried to punish—and failed.

____________________

That night, the dorm was quiet.

Seokmin sat wrapped in a blanket on the balcony with Seungkwan.

Below, the city lights twinkled—indifferent but alive.

“I don’t hate him,” Seokmin said softly.

Seungkwan was silent for a moment.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m not forgiving him either.”

“Good.”

They sat in the breeze, the blanket catching the wind like a fragile sail.

“I thought being soft meant being weak,” Seokmin whispered.

“I thought maybe I deserved it—for being so easy to trick.”

Seungkwan turned to him, eyes fierce yet gentle.

“You didn’t deserve any of it, hyung.”

A pause.

“And you’re not weak. You’re... dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

Seungkwan smiled small but sure.

“You survived it. You didn’t let it turn you cruel. That scares people more than anything.”

Seokmin had no words left.

So he leaned his head against Seungkwan’s shoulder.

The stars above were silent.

But inside, something began to sing again.

____________________

The morning after the confrontation, Seokmin woke up with the weight of everything pressing against his chest. The world outside was already moving on—traffic humming, birds calling—but inside him, the storm hadn’t settled. He wasn’t ready to move on. Not yet.

Still, in the small hours of the next day, he found himself wandering into the vocal room alone. The lights were dim, the air still, and the silence was thick enough to hold his broken thoughts. He opened his notebook, pages filled with half-finished songs, thoughts scribbled in his neat handwriting like whispered confessions.

He sang—quietly at first—snippets of melodies he’d started but never finished. His voice cracked, not from tears—those had run dry—but from the weight of everything he’d been carrying, every unspoken pain and hope folded into the notes. It wasn’t a performance. It was a release.

He paused and looked down at a blank page. Without thinking, he wrote:

“Kindness isn’t a costume I wear. It’s just me.”

He underlined it twice. Because it was true. And it was his truth.

Later that night, when he finally made it back to the dorm, he found Jihoon still awake. The producer was slumped at the dining table, headphones askew, arms folded tightly—like a fortress against the world.

Jihoon glanced up, said nothing, but then stood and wrapped Seokmin in a hug.

Jihoon wasn’t one for hugs. Everyone knew that. But this one held a quiet understanding—a recognition of the fracture beneath Seokmin’s calm.

“The world’s a piece of shit sometimes,” Jihoon muttered into his shoulder.

Seokmin gave a small laugh. “Is that your pep talk?”

“Nope,” Jihoon replied. “Sometimes, when you shatter, it’s not losing—it’s making space. Space for more.”

“More what?”

“More you.”

____________________

The days rolled on. Practice sessions stacked up. Schedules resumed. Life didn’t pause for grief.

But something inside Seokmin had shifted. He wasn’t the same boy who’d trusted so freely, but he was still himself—fragile, yes, but fighting.

There were mornings he laughed so hard at breakfast he snorted his cereal. Nights he stepped on stage and shone like a blazing sun.

But there were also moments of flinching, smiles that didn’t reach his eyes, and long hours lost in his room, the door quietly closed.

The members noticed.

They didn’t crowd him.

They trailed him with quiet care.

A second pair of chopsticks left at dinner.

A hoodie folded on his bed.

Minghao sending him a random photo of a baby capybara with no explanation.

Joshua moved his mattress closer, just enough to be near if needed.

Soonyoung camped on the couch outside his room “for posture.”

Jeonghan insisted on driving him everywhere. “You don’t know how to dodge creepy people. And I’m prettier, so they’ll come for me first.”

Even Vernon lingered nearby—quiet, steady, no pressure—just there.

They wouldn’t let him disappear again.

____________________

One night, when the city was asleep under the moon’s blue gaze, Seokmin and Jun sat on the roof sharing a blanket and tangerines.

Jun peeled it slowly, handing over the juiciest slice.

“I know it still hurts,” Jun said softly. “But you’re still you.”

Seokmin was quiet, then whispered, “Do you think I was stupid?”

“No,” Jun said firmly. “You were open. And he used that like a weapon.”

“He told me I was too much.”

“Then he was too little.”

Seokmin smiled, weak but real. “You sound like a poet.”

Jun grinned, popping the last slice into his mouth. “I sound like someone who’d kill for you and hide the body.”

Seokmin laughed for the first time in a long while.

____________________

Slowly, the music returned.

Chords. Verses. Melodies. He wrote his pain into something tangible.

One day, Jihoon peeked into the studio and said simply, “Put that one on the album.”

And just like that, it was real.

A song. A scar transformed. A memory made melody.

Months later, at a quiet fan meeting, they performed it once.

Seokmin stood center stage, microphone tight in his hands, the group like wings behind him.

When the final note faded, silence hung for a breathless five seconds.

Then the crowd erupted.

But in that fragile stillness—between the echo and the roar—

Seokmin stood tall.

Whole.

Smiling.

Not as someone unscathed, but someone who’d been hurt and refused to break.

Someone who’d learned that in a cruel world, softness isn’t weakness—

It’s defiance.

____________________

But Hyunwoo came back.

Because some ghosts don’t know they’re meant to stay dead.

Hyunwoo showed up like a shadow lurking just beyond the dance practice building, pretending like he was just passing through, like nothing had happened.

Seokmin spotted him first through the tinted glass, heart skipping the cruelest beat.

For a moment—just one sharp, breathless moment—it felt like the air stopped in his lungs.

But then Seungkwan stepped forward—solid as a wall, silent as the night—closing the door between them with a quiet finality.

“You don’t have to face him,” Seungkwan murmured without turning. “Not unless you want to.”

Seokmin didn’t answer. Words were heavy, tangled in the past.

But he walked out anyway.

Not alone.

Jeonghan at his side, Joshua close behind, Mingyu trailing with knuckles cracking like thunder ready to strike. The rest gathered—shoulders squared, a fortress in human form.

Hyunwoo froze.

No smirk. No casual charm. No sly escape route.

He hadn’t expected an army.

He hadn’t expected this Seokmin.

Calm.

Unshaken.

Softness sharpened into armor.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Seokmin said quietly.

Hyunwoo laughed, a brittle twitch of a sound.

“Seokmin, come on. You know I never meant for things to go this far. I was in a bad place, okay? I made mistakes—”

“No,” Seokmin interrupted, voice steady and clear.

“I was the one in a bad place. You made it worse.”

A flicker crossed Hyunwoo’s face. He stepped forward, but Mingyu’s fist clenched like a loaded gun.

“Touch him and I swear—” Mingyu growled low.

Joshua’s gaze sliced through the air—silent but deadly.

Hyunwoo hesitated, finally seeing the truth he’d ignored:

This wasn’t the same Seokmin he’d toyed with.

Not the sunshine waiting to be taken.

This was the storm that rose from the ruins.

“You really think your little team will protect you forever?” Hyunwoo sneered, his mask slipping into something darker.

“What happens when you break again? When you fall apart?”

“I broke once,” Seokmin said, unwavering.

“And they stayed.”

Jeonghan’s voice cut in, calm but cold:

“Get lost before I forget I’m the mature one.”

Soonyoung muttered something under his breath—“Should’ve hit you harder”—and Seokmin let it hang.

Then, surprising everyone, Seokmin spoke again:

“I want one minute.”

“Hyung—” Chan started, but Seokmin shook his head.

“It’s okay.”

They backed off just enough to give him space, eyes sharp and watchful like wolves circling their prey.

Hyunwoo leaned in, a sly smile twisting his words into poison:

“I made mistakes. You miss me. You need people like me—softer types like you.”

Seokmin held his gaze without blinking.

“I don’t miss you.”

His words came slow, deliberate.

“I missed the version of you I thought I knew.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

Seokmin’s voice was firm.

“But you’ve been lying since that first night at the park.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes darkened with cold fire.

“You think you’re strong now, just ‘cause they’re around you?”

“No.”

Now there was steel beneath the softness.

“I’m strong because, even after everything you did—I’m still me.”

Hyunwoo opened his mouth, but Seokmin stopped him, voice breaking—not from pain, but from truth:

“You don’t get to come back. You don’t get to play the victim. And you don’t get me.”

Seokmin’s eyes burned with something fierce and tender.

“I’m still kind. I still laugh too loud. I still believe in good things.”

“You didn’t break that. You can’t change that.”

The words landed like a strike.

Hyunwoo stepped back, stunned.

Then Seokmin leaned in, voice lowering, steady as a heartbeat.

“And I know about the bet.”

Hyunwoo’s face flickered—shock, then shame, then something close to regret.

“You and your friends—treating me like some kind of game.”

Seokmin shook his head softly.

“I’m not a game. And your ‘prize’ was my kindness—something you thought was weakness to exploit.”

“But it’s not.”

The truth hung between them, fragile and fierce.

Seokmin stepped back into the circle of his friends, soft but unbreakable.

“You began losing your chance to know the real me the moment you approached me—just to win that bet.”

Hyunwoo said nothing.

And Seungcheol, voice sharp with rage and protection, finally broke the silence:

“Leave. Before we make you.”

Hyunwoo turned and walked away—this time for good.

____________________

That night, under the warmth of stage lights and the hush that settles just before a song begins, Seokmin stood center stage again.

His heart beat slow and steady, not because he wasn’t nervous—but because he was, and he chose to stand there anyway.

This time, he didn’t sing to prove he’d healed.

He didn’t sing to forget the pain or silence the ache.

He sang with it.

Not despite the scars.

Not pretending the past hadn’t left its mark.

But because it had—and he was still here.

And that meant something.

Every note that left his lips carried weight. Not heavy, not dragging, but grounded. Real.

Like the sound of someone who had seen darkness up close—and still chose to reach for the light.

He didn’t need to belt or soar or hit the perfect run to move them.

The truth was in the way he stood. The way he let himself be seen.

Each lyric felt like stitching something closed.

Not hiding it—healing it.

From the side of the stage, the others watched quietly.

Seungcheol’s arms crossed tight. Jeonghan’s fingers pressed to his lips.

Joshua tilted his head just slightly, eyes soft with something that looked like relief and awe all at once.

None of them said anything. They didn’t need to.

They’d seen him at his lowest.

Now they were watching him rise.

And when the final chorus rolled in like a tide, Seokmin paused—not for dramatic effect, but for breath. For clarity.

Then he smiled, and it wasn’t the stage smile.

It was the kind that made his eyes crinkle. The kind that felt like truth.

He stepped just a little closer to the mic, and spoke in a voice low and steady:

“Even when it’s hard… I still want to be the reason someone feels a little lighter.”

The silence that followed was brief, like the world holding its breath.

Then the crowd answered.

The kind of roar that shakes the rafters, that crawls up your spine and into your ribs and makes you feel something.

Not because it was loud—because it was real.

They weren’t cheering for perfection.

They were cheering for him.

As he was.

____________________

When the crowd’s cheers finally faded into a distant hum, and the lights dimmed to shadows, Seokmin didn’t hurry back to his room like he sometimes did. Instead, he stayed—a quiet figure by the window, wrapped in the soft stillness of the night.

Outside, the city breathed slowly beneath a blanket of stars, indifferent to the storms inside him, yet somehow comforting in its constancy. The moon traced silver patterns on the pavement, like gentle reminders that even in darkness, there was light.

His fingers traced the edges of his worn notebook, the pages filled with music and memories—each lyric a testament to the battles fought quietly inside. The scars etched in ink, the melodies born from broken moments, all woven into the fabric of who he was becoming.

He thought about the betrayal. About Hyunwoo. About the cruel games played, the bets made, the friendship that had never been real.

The sting of it settled deep inside, like a quiet ache that refused to fade.

But beneath that ache, something else grew—a fierce, gentle strength.

He wasn’t broken. Not really.

Because Seokmin knew now that softness was not a flaw to hide or a weakness to shield from the world.

It was the bravest choice he could make.

To be kind when cruelty had tried to teach him to be hard.

To laugh when silence begged him to shut down.

To open his heart again after it had been used like a playground for someone else’s cruelty.

He didn’t have to change who he was to survive.

He chose to remain himself.

Not because the world was kind—far from it—but because he believed in kindness still. Because he believed in the quiet power of gentleness, in the way it could heal wounds no armor ever could.

Seokmin took a deep breath, feeling the weight inside soften just a little. The pain would linger—maybe always—but it no longer defined him.

He was more than what had been taken from him.

He was laughter spilled at breakfast with his friends.

He was late-night dance sessions that made his heart beat again.

He was whispered encouragements from those who refused to let him fall.

And most of all, he was the softness that survived the storm.

A softness the world tried to punish—and failed.

Seokmin closed the notebook, tucked it carefully into his bag, and stood.

He walked to his room slowly, the quiet strength in his step steady and sure.

He wasn’t running away.

He was moving forward.

Whole.

Gentle.

Unbreakable.

Because his greatest courage is simply choosing to stay soft in a world that demands you harden.

And that night, wrapped in the quiet warmth of home and friendship, Seokmin found peace in his choice.

To be himself.

Always.